Simon Montefiore - One Night in Winter

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Tomorrow. Here’s your table. Enjoy your meal.’

Ever since Minka’s arrest, Dashka had not enjoyed a moment’s ease. Even her surgery, which she loved, had barely distracted her. She worried every second: was Minka sleeping? Was there a lavatory in her cell? What was she eating? What if she got her period in there? Were they being kind to her? Oh please, let them be kind to her: I beg you, Comrade Beria or whoever is in charge of her, don’t crush her love of life. Dashka knew that Genrikh was in pain too even though he had lectured her about Bolshevik justice. In a flash of temper, she had shouted at him: ‘I want my daughter back, Genrikh! You can keep your Bolshevik justice!’ But now that Minka was coming home, she could enjoy her family, and this meant enjoying her Little Professor.

‘Mamochka?’ Senka was holding her face in his hands and shaking her a little. ‘Wake up at the back of the class!’

She had been dreaming of going to Lubianka to collect Minka. When would the call come? How would they celebrate? I will cook her pancakes with strawberry jam, her favourite, and she can have pancakes every day, she decided, forever!

‘Mamochka, did you know I caught Demian in my room the other day, looking through my things? He was plundering my room.’

She shook herself back to the present. ‘Plundering, was he?’

‘Or it could have been looting. Or a deed of opportunistic piracy?’

‘Good words, Little Professor. But Demian’s too old to play with your toys, darling. I’m sure he didn’t take anything.’

‘But it’s vexing.’

‘I’ll talk to him, I promise.’

‘Thank you, Mamochka.’ Another kiss. ‘Can I pop next door and borrow a book from Lulu Nosenko’s daddy? For homework.’

‘What book are you borrowing?’

‘ Tchaikovsky’s Music and Librettos in Opera and Ballet .’

‘Well, that’s essential reading.’ Dashka smiled indulgently. ‘Put on the matching dressing gown, and off you go. Papa will be here any minute and then we’ll have supper. Hurry up!’

Dashka went into the kitchen. Demian was in his room. The maid Luda was stirring Genrikh’s favourite spicy borscht with extra chilli. A few minutes later, she heard the door shut on the latch. Genrikh was home.

He kissed her and as he did, she whispered, ‘Is the news still good?’ and he said, ‘So far. Luda, pour us both a glass of wine.’

Dizzy with excitement, Dashka kissed her husband, and even Genrikh had to smile.

Soon their supper was ready. ‘Demian! Senka!’ called Genrikh. Demian appeared and sat at the table. Dashka noticed the dirty hair and pimply skin of her teenage son. What a surly phase he was going through. He was the image of his father, not like the other children, who were all her.

‘Get Senka,’ she told him.

‘He’s not in his room.’

‘No, he went next door to the Nosenkos. Will you fetch him?’

Demian left slightly sulkily but was back in a moment. ‘He collected the book ten minutes ago.’

Dashka looked at Genrikh – and in that moment, she felt as if her stomach was falling, falling for ever, through her body, the floor, the earth, eternity. Then she bolted out of the kitchen.

‘Senka! Senka!’ she shouted, going from room to room. She ran back into the dining room where Genrikh and Demian were still sitting at the table in silence. ‘But he was still in his pyjamas. Where could he be? Genrikh, what the hell is going on? Help me look for him for God’s sake! Senka! ’

It had been a long and confusing day for George Satinov. As soon as he had revealed where he got the gun, he’d known he had done something terrible. Everyone in Lubianka was suddenly being kind to him and that made him even more worried.

After breakfast, he’d been taken to the interrogation where Mogilchuk chatted to him about football and Kobylov popped his head around the door as if to wish him luck. Back in his cell, he’d paced up and down. Perhaps I’m going home, he’d thought in a delirium of hope. The lunch was lamb cutlets and potatoes, a special feast, not the usual Lubianka fare.

But the hours passed, and nothing happened. And by the time it was supper, he was rattled. Then the food arrived: the thin gruel with a few knuckles of fat floating in the grease and the tiny square of bread and butter. No one came to fetch him, to collect his things and free him. Night fell. The light stayed on. He could not sleep but as he began to doze, the Judas port clicked. ‘Hands on top of the blanket. Wake up!’

The lock groaned open and he was marched down the corridor back to the interrogation room. ‘No talking – or the punishment cell!’ he was told. ‘Eyes straight ahead.’

He was in the same room but a new interrogator was waiting for him.

‘Sit down, Prisoner Satinov,’ said a man who had a sharp face, sheer, flat cheekbones and a mouth and jaw that protruded like the muzzle of a dog. Prisoner? The words ‘prisoner’ and ‘Satinov’ did not go together at all. Satinov was usually mentioned with ‘hero’ or ‘Comrade Stalin’s closest…’

‘Answer the questions directly and truthfully. Hide nothing from us.’

‘But I’ve told you all I know.’

‘Me? You haven’t told me anything. I am Colonel Likhachev and we’re starting again, boy. When did you plan to seize power, Prisoner Satinov?’

‘Please, I’m confused. I’m a schoolboy. I’m not even interested in politics. I leave that to the Party.’

‘Insolence is not tolerated here, prisoner.’ Likhachev slapped him across the face with the back of his hand. Stars flickered behind George’s eyes; his mouth stung.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Don’t footle with me,’ Likhachev said, ‘or I’ll reduce you to a puddle of fluid on the floor.’

George’s stomach seized up. He was suddenly very afraid.

‘You were a member of a conspiracy to overthrow the Soviet Government, kill members of the Politburo and install a new ministry,’ Likhachev stated.

‘I want to answer but I don’t understand. I am utterly loyal to Comrade Stalin and the Soviet Government. I’m a Komsomol.’

‘What was your role in Nikolasha Blagov’s provisional government?’

‘Oh my God, that was a joke.’

‘Be careful, prisoner. A conspiracy against the Soviet Government is not a joke.’

‘But it wasn’t a conspiracy. It was Nikolasha’s idiotic game.’

‘Do you recognize this?’

‘Yes. Yes, it’s Nikolasha’s Velvet Book.’

‘Let me read you something: Today I, First Romantic Secretary Nikolasha, will meet the members of the Central Romantic Committee to discuss the appointment of a new government. You read this and agreed with it, did you not?’

‘No!’

‘But you signed it. Look – there’s your signature.’

‘I didn’t take it seriously. I thought Nikolasha was mad and ridiculous. We all did!’

‘You’re in deep trouble, boy. This is treason.’

‘I’ll tell you anything, anything at all. Just ask!’

‘Why were you to be Minister of…’ Likhachev looked down the list of appointments. ‘…Sport?’

‘That shows I wasn’t serious. Sport’s not important. I said I’d do it because I’m more into football than literature.’

‘You could be shot for this, prisoner.’

‘I’m only eighteen. Please, I don’t understand any of this.’

‘Whose idea was it to form an anti-Communist government?’

‘It was Nikolasha’s idea. It was all him.’

Likhachev cleared his catarrh. ‘That’s convenient since he’s dead. Who was behind him? Forget your father. Forget your fancy friends. Forget the Aragvi. Now it is just you against the almighty power of the Soviet State.’