Simon Montefiore - One Night in Winter

Tamara chose her words carefully: ‘The Organs only act with good reason, and the good reason in this case is that they are simply investigating the deaths of poor Nikolasha Blagov and Rosa Shako. That’s all. Your boy will tell them what he knows and then they will release him. You must calm down, Irina.’

‘No, no, they’ll beat him. He’s very sensitive and vulnerable. Anyone can see that. He could kill himself. They could kill him.’

‘No, that couldn’t happen.’

‘But they’re capable of anything. We both know this. I must speak to your husband. I know he’s here. He must call Comrade Stalin!’

Tamara took both of Irina’s hands and squeezed them hard. ‘Stay here. Quietly. I will speak to my husband now.’

As she said it, Tamara’s voice almost cracked. Hercules himself had gone to pick up the children that day. He planned to do so every day until the case had blown over. He’d told her that pick-up at the Golden Gates was buzzing with the news of Vlad’s arrest and gossip about Nikolasha’s weird games. But there was nothing particularly sinister about the Organs’ questioning of Vlad, he’d said. The deaths had to be investigated and Vlad was Nikolasha and Rosa’s best friend. There was nothing to worry about.

‘Hercules?’ Tamara said, softly knocking on the door, and coming in.

‘I’m working, Tamara.’

‘Irina Titorenka is here. She’s hysterical. She wants your help to appeal to the… the highest authority.’

Satinov raised his eyes from his papers and shook his head very slightly. ‘Take her for a walk in the yard and give her some advice. Tell her to trust in Soviet justice. That’s all.’

Tamara kissed the top of his head and was hurrying back to the kitchen when she saw George and Marlen peering down the corridor at Irina Titorenka, who was blowing her nose.

‘What’s going on, Mama?’ demanded George.

‘Is that Vlad’s mother?’ asked Marlen.

‘Hush! To your rooms – or your father will have something to say.’ And they were gone.

A few minutes later Tamara led Irina Titorenka downstairs to the yard. Losha Babanava and the other bodyguards were down there smoking. A couple of old people, Molotov’s aunt and Politburo member Andreyev’s father, in shorts and a string vest, were sitting in the sun playing chess. They knew. All of them whispered to each other when they saw the distraught mother.

When they could not be overheard, Tamara placed her hands on Irina’s shoulders. ‘Now listen to me,’ she said. ‘I know this is worrying. But you must say nothing of this to anyone. Do not ever mention Comrade Stalin. Never try to call him or any other leader. That will only delay Vlad’s release. The Organs will inform you of Vlad’s whereabouts when they’re ready. Take your younger child to school. Everyone is watching you. My husband says you must put your faith in Soviet justice. Do you understand me?’

But when Irina was gone, Tamara noticed that her own hands were shaking.

‘WHAT WAS YOUR role in the criminal conspiracy to murder the two schoolchildren Nikolasha Blagov and Rosa Shako?’

‘Conspiracy? Murder? I don’t understand.’ It was early the following morning, and Vlad was sitting in a grey room at a Formica table with a single light.

‘Let’s start again shall we? Your name?’

‘Vladimir Ivanovich Titorenko.’

‘Age?’

‘Seventeen and nine months.’

‘I am Pavel Mogilchuk. Special Case Section, Ministry of State Security, understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Come on, Vlad, stop crying,’ Mogilchuk said, handing him a handkerchief. Vlad looked at him, at his round spectacles and reddish hair with a touch of grey. He looked a little like a teacher. ‘I know it’s been a tough couple of days and you’re worried but I want to reassure you.’

‘But I want to see my mother. Does she know where I am…?’

‘Do you know where you are, Vlad?’

Vlad’s romantic locks had been cropped, and without them, his face seemed long and forlorn. He shook his head.

‘It’s a state secret, boy, but I’ll tell you: you’re in Lubianka Inner Prison, Dzerzhinsky Square. Was it very frightening arriving?’ Vlad nodded. ‘It’s scary being processed here, stripped and searched inside and photographed. But it’s just routine. How did you sleep?’

‘They wouldn’t let me sleep. They kept the light on; they woke me up; they made me put my hands on top of the covers. I couldn’t sleep. Where’s my mother?’

Mogilchuk leaned forward across the plain table and re-directed the light so it was not shining into Vlad’s eyes. ‘Come on, boy. Show some Bolshevik toughness! I’m going to ask you questions and you’ll answer everything in full. Don’t lie about anything. If you lie, that will be worse for you. If you tell the truth about everything, you’ll go home soon. OK?’

Vlad nodded.

‘What was your role in the conspiracy to murder Nikolasha and Rosa?’

‘What conspiracy?’

‘Let’s start from the beginning, shall we? Or you’ll never go home.’

Vlad took a sharp breath, and looked at his hands. ‘Nikolasha Blagov had a club and he liked to play something called the Game.’

‘The Game? What was that? Whites and Reds? Cossacks and Tartars? Soccer?’

‘No, we dressed up in costumes.’

‘So it’s a theatre group?’

‘Yes, we pretended to be Pushkin…’

‘Go on,’ said Mogilchuk. ‘I understand. I’m a writer myself. We Russians love poetry, do we not?’

Vlad nodded. ‘We played characters from Onegin. ’

‘What could be more normal than that?’ Mogilchuk opened his hands. ‘Where did you meet? At school?’

‘No. We usually met in the graveyard in the Sparrow Hills.’

‘The graveyard? Why?’

‘Because it was a secret club.’

‘And did this club have a name?’

‘Yes, the Fatal Romantics’ Club.’

‘And what did you do at these secret meetings?’

‘We talked about romanticism. Poetry.’

‘And politics?’

‘No.’

‘There’s something missing here. Come on, think!’ Mogilchuk clicked his fingers. ‘How did it go from poetry play-acting to the shooting of two children?’

Vlad gave a loud and unexpected sob. ‘I just don’t know.’

‘You were Nikolasha’s deputy in the club, weren’t you? So what did you debate?’

‘Love. Death. Nikolasha said that if you could not live with love, it was better to die. Like Pushkin.’

‘Did Rosa mention death?’

‘No.’

‘Would you say it was likely that they’d agreed to a suicide pact?’

‘No. Never!’

‘Would you say it is possible that Nikolasha killed her and then himself?’

Vlad’s face was in his hands. ‘I don’t know.’

‘That evening on the Stone Bridge, did you see them close up?’

‘No.’

‘You’re lying.’

The door flew open as if kicked in, and a lieutenant general of State Security entered the room. The word ‘swagger’ might have been invented for this bull of a man, thought Vlad miserably. He seemed too bulging, too bright, too big to be real. An array of precious rings sat on fingers as fat and hairy as grubs. And Vlad thought that the muscles of his arms, let alone his legs in their striped britches, seemed as thick as his waist.

‘Comrade Kobylov!’ Mogilchuk stood to attention.

‘Sorry to interrupt your gentle chat.’ Kobylov brought his fleshy, olive-skinned face very close to Vlad. He was wearing an eye-wateringly strong cologne and smelled of cloves. ‘I warn you, if you lie to me, you may never get out of here. No matter who the fuck your parents are!’ He smashed his fist on to the table, and Vlad jumped with fright.