Paullina Simons - Tatiana and Alexander

Stepanov took his coat. “The things they accuse you of—”

“Don’t ask me, sir.”

“Deny them, Alexander.”

As Stepanov turned to go, Alexander said, “Sir …” He was so weak he almost couldn’t get the words out. He didn’t care how cold the wall was, he could not stand on his own anymore. He pressed his body against the icy concrete and then sank down to the floor. “Did you see her?”

He lifted his gaze to Stepanov, who nodded.

“How was she?”

“Don’t ask, Alexander.”

“Was she—”

“Don’t ask.”

“Tell me.”

“Do you remember when you brought my son back to me?” Stepanov asked, trying to keep his voice from breaking. “Because of you I had comfort. I was able to see him before he died, I was able to bury him.”

“All right, no more,” said Alexander.

“Who was going to give that comfort to your wife?”

Alexander put his face into his hands.

Stepanov left.

Alexander sat motionlessly on the floor. He didn’t need morphine, he didn’t need drugs, he didn’t need phenobarbital. He needed a bullet in his fucking chest.

The door opened. Alexander had not been given any bread or water, or any clothes. He had no idea how long he had been left undressed in the cold cell.

A man came in who apparently did not want to stand. Behind him a guard brought in a chair and the tall, bald, unpleasant-faced man sat down and in a pleasant-sounding nasal voice said, “Do you know what I’m holding in my hands, Major?”

Alexander shook his head. There was a kerosene lamp between them.

“I’m holding all your clothes, Major. All your clothes and a wool blanket. And look, I’ve got a nice piece of pork for you, on the bone. It’s still warm. Some potatoes too, with sour cream and butter. A shot of vodka. And a nice long smoke. You can leave this damn cold place, have some food, get dressed. How would you like that?”

“I would like that,” Alexander said impassively. His voice wasn’t going to tremble for a stranger.

The man smiled. “I thought you would. I came all the way from Leningrad to talk to you. Do you think we could talk for a bit?”

“I don’t see why not,” Alexander replied. “I don’t have much else to do.”

The man laughed. “No, that’s right. Not much at all.” His non-laughing eyes studied Alexander intently.

“What do you want to talk about?”

“You, mostly, Major Belov. A couple of other things.”

“That’s fine.”

“Would you like your clothes?”

“I’m sure,” Alexander said, “that to a smart man like yourself, the answer is obvious.”

“I have another cell for you to go to. It’s warmer, bigger and has a window. Much warmer. It must be twenty-five degrees Celsius in there right now, not like this one, it’s probably no more than five Celsius in here.” The man smiled again. “Or would you like me to translate that into Fahrenheit for you, Major?”

Fahrenheit? Alexander narrowed his eyes. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Did I mention tobacco?”

“You mentioned it.”

“All these things, Major—comfort things. Would you like any of them?”

“Didn’t I answer that question?”

“You answered that question. I have one more for you.”

“Yes?”

“Are you Alexander Barrington, the son of Harold Barrington, a man who came here in December of 1930, with a beautiful wife and a good-looking eleven-year-old son?”

Alexander didn’t blink as he stood in front of the sitting interrogator. “What is your name?” he asked. “Usually you people introduce yourselves.”

“Us people?” The man smiled. “I tell you what. You answer me and I will answer you.”

“What’s your question?”

“Are you Alexander Barrington?”

“No. What is your name?”

The man shook his head.

“What?” said Alexander. “You asked me to answer your question. I did. Now you answer mine.”

“Leonid Slonko,” said the interrogator. “Does that make any difference to you?”

Alexander studied him very carefully. He had heard the name Slonko before. “Did you say you came from Leningrad to talk to me?”

“Yes.”

“You work in Leningrad?”

“Yes.”

“A long time, Comrade Slonko? They tell me you’re very good at your job. A long time in your line of work?”

“Twenty-three years.”

Alexander whistled appreciatively. “Where in Leningrad?”

“Where what?”

“Where do you work? Kresty? Or the House of Detention on Millionnaya?”

“What do you know about the House of Detention, Major?”

“I know it was built during Alexander II’s reign in 1864. Is that where you work?”

“Occasionally I interview prisoners there, yes.”

Nodding, Alexander went on. “Nice city, Leningrad. I’m still not used to it, though.”

“No? Well, why would you be?”

“That’s right, why would I? I prefer Krasnodar. It’s warmer.” Alexander smiled. “And your title, comrade?”

“I’m chief of operations,” Slonko replied.

“Not a military man, then? I didn’t think so.”

Slonko bolted up, holding Alexander’s clothes in his hands. “It just occurred to me, Major,” he said, “that we are finished here.”

“I agree,” said Alexander. “Thanks for coming by.”

Slonko departed in such an angry rush that he left the lamp and the chair. It was some time before the guard came in and took them.

Darkness again.

So debilitating. But nothing so diminishing as fear.

This time he didn’t wait long.

The door opened and two guards came in and ordered him to come with them. Alexander said, “I’m not dressed.”

“You won’t need clothes where you’re going.”

The guards were young and eager—the worst kind. He walked between them, slightly ahead of them, barefoot up the stone stairs, and down the corridor of the school, out the back way to the woods, barefoot in the March slush. Were they going to ask him to dig a hole? He felt the rifles at his back. Alexander’s feet were numb, and his body was going numb, but his chest wasn’t numb, his heart wasn’t numb, and if only his heart could stop hurting, he would be able to take it much better.

He remembered the ten-year-old Cub Scout, the American boy, the Soviet boy. The bare trees were ghostly but for a moment he was happy to smell the cold air and to see the gray sky. It’s going to be all right, he thought. If Tania is in Helsinki and remembers what I told her, then she would have convinced Sayers to leave as soon as possible. Perhaps they’ve gone already. Perhaps they’re already in Stockholm. And then nothing else matters.

“Turn around,” one of the guards said.

“Do I stop walking first?” Alexander said. His teeth chattered.

“Stop walking,” said the flustered guard, “and turn around.”

He stopped walking. He turned around.

“Alexander Belov,” said the shorter guard in the most pompous voice he could muster, “you have been found guilty of treason and espionage against our Motherland during the time of war against our country. The punishment for military treason is death, to be carried out immediately.”

Alexander stood still. He put his feet together and his hands at his side. Unblinkingly he looked at the guards. They blinked.

“Well, now what?” he asked.

“The punishment for treason is death,” the short guard repeated. He came over to Alexander, proffering a black blindfold. “Here,” he said. Alexander noticed the young man’s hands were shaking.

“How old are you, Corporal?” he asked quietly.