Simon Montefiore - One Night in Winter

George was exhausted. He wiped his face, tried to focus. ‘Vlad Titorenko was his best friend but I don’t think Nikolasha even showed him the notebook.’

‘But reading his notebook, it is clear that one person had to approve his ideas, his conspiracy, his government. Who was it?’

The shock was making George feel leaden. His eyelids were heavy and he wanted to yawn. ‘Sorry, I’m so tired…’

‘Concentrate, prisoner. It is clear that someone else was the brains behind this treason. Let me read you this: NV has approved my ideas. Or here: NV must approve the government. ’

‘It was not about politics. It never has been. It was about love.’

Likhachev punched George in the mouth, throwing him across the room.

‘We have the written evidence of his notebook. And it is quite clear that this “NV” is the grey cardinal of his conspiracy. Who is “NV”?’

‘Prisoner Minka Dorova, the punishment for conspiracy under Article 158 is death. Were you a party to a terroristic conspiracy?’ asked Colonel Komarov. Soft-spoken with the habit of running his hands through his light-brown curly hair, he focused on Minka sitting opposite him. His forehead, she decided, had the rumpled frown lines that marked the sincerity of the truly stupid.

‘No.’ Minka closed her eyes. She never thought she would miss Kobylov and Mogilchuk, but now, each question made her feel sicker. She fought waves of giddy panic and told herself: Keep your head!

‘Then why is your name in the government as Minister of Theatre?’

‘But that’s a joke. Surely you can see from the title of the ministry?’

‘We believe that you and Nikolasha Blagov and your other friends were pawns in this vile plot. Someone is behind it. Someone important.’

‘I don’t know whom you mean.’

‘Answer the question. Who is really behind this conspiracy to form a new government?’

‘No one.’ Minka was conscious of the tears running down her cheeks.

‘In his notebook, Nikolasha says that “NV” approves all his decisions. Who is this “NV”?’

Concentrate, Minka, she told herself, confess nothing, and you will get through this. She shook her head.

Komarov lit a cigarette. ‘Come with me, prisoner,’ he said and pressed a button on the desk.

Two warders entered and took her by the arms.

‘Where are you taking me? What are you going to do to me?’

‘We’re going to show you something to concentrate your mind.’

She was marched into a room with a glass wall through which she could see an empty interrogation room, just like the one she’d been in. Table, lamp, two chairs.

‘You can see in but no one can see out,’ said Komarov. ‘And no one can hear you.’

The door opened into the neighbouring room, and a small boy with tousled hair and large brown eyes walked in, wearing blue silk pyjamas with red piping.

‘Senka!’ she cried, throwing herself against the glass. ‘ Senka! ’

ANDREI KURBSKY LAY in his cell. He now knew he would never escape the curse of his tainted biography; he’d always be the son of an Enemy. But there was one consolation: he felt closer to his father.

His father must surely have been through the same registration, the same cells, perhaps even this one. Andrei looked at the marks on the walls: drawings, words, scratches. He read out the names, dates, messages. Some must have died here; some must have been shot in the cellars and they wrote their names here to be read. He searched for his father’s name and dreamed that he too would be sent out to the Gulags – and that one day, in a snowy forest clearing, he would meet his father chopping logs…

The night was lonely. Someone was shouting; someone was coughing. Andrei was tired and so afraid. It was the uncertainty that was the hardest thing. Who else was in the cells here? What had they said? What was it safe to say?

The clip of boots outside. Locks turning. The door opened, and he was on his way to the interrogation rooms but this time he found a new officer was waiting for him. One look at Colonel Likhachev’s sunken, broiling eyes and little yellow teeth and Andrei knew that the case had taken another twist.

‘Prisoner Kurbsky, you were a party to an anti-Party conspiracy with Nikolasha Blagov.’ Likhachev took a book from a beige folder – a book Andrei recognized all too well – and began to read: ‘ We in the Romantics ’ Club are no longer interested in that nonsense of the progression of history, the dialectic, class struggle: the passion of the individual is supreme. How do you regard his views? ’

‘They are un-Leninist, un-Marxist: I was profoundly disgusted. As a Communist I reject it. Nikolasha was a clown, but a dangerous one nonetheless.’ It was a relief, thought Andrei, to see the book, and know how he should respond to these questions.

‘But you did nothing about this?’

‘I did do something…’

‘Don’t lie. Let me continue. Serafima is appointed Minister of Love. NV must approve all appointments. Meet NV for instructions. ’

Andrei struggled to sit up straight and focus. ‘Look, I don’t know any “NV” but I was the last to join the Fatal Romantics’ Club. This is really nothing to do with me.’

‘I’m interested in this “Minister of Love”. It says here that Serafima Romashkina was elected to this position by the Politburo.’

‘I didn’t know.’ Andrei did not want to discuss Serafima at all. Don’t mention Serafima, he told himself. Stay awake! ‘You couldn’t take Nikolasha Blagov seriously about anything. He was unbalanced.’

Likhachev leafed through the notebook. ‘Even so, here he writes: Minister of Love is supreme because love is supreme, higher than Gensec. ’

Andrei shivered. ‘Gensec’ was the acronym for ‘General Secretary’ of the Party and there had only ever been one Gensec: Stalin himself. This was treason.

Likhachev leaned across the desk, and Andrei was struck again by his bloodshot and yellow eyes, which reminded him of an egg with blood in the yolk. ‘You need to tell me who NV is.’

‘I think NV is imaginary.’

Likhachev slammed his hands on the table. ‘Don’t dare to misdirect this investigation. We know that you, Prisoner Kurbsky, know who NV is. And you will tell us. Even if I have to scrape it with a scoop from the inside of your dead skull.’

Minka had lost all track of time. She was back in her interrogation room and trying hard not to panic. But the sight of her small brother had rattled her, especially as she now knew that if she fell, she would drag Senka and her parents to perdition with her. She closed her eyes, picturing herself and Senka being shot in the back of their heads. What should she do? What should she say?

‘Why is Senka here?’ she asked. ‘He’s ten. Please, I beg you, send him home. My mother must be frantic.’

‘Tell us about Nikolasha Blagov’s notebook. The one you call the Velvet Book of Love.’

‘I never knew what was in it. If I had known that he was doing something so evil, something against our great Soviet State, I would have informed against him. But I promise: I knew nothing of any conspiracy. Nothing.’

‘Who is “NV”?’

The walls seemed to lean in on Minka as she thought of Senka, her little brother. What was NV? NV? She must come up with something to free Senka, to free all of them. NV had to mean something. Perhaps she should invent a code, plant a red herring, a distraction to direct the Chekists away from herself and Senka, from George and Serafima. She presumed that because a code did not exist, they would not find it – and therefore nothing would come of it. Already an idea was ripening in her mind, taking shape at the tip of her tongue until the experienced Komarov could see it was coming.