Simon Montefiore - One Night in Winter

But as he said his goodbyes at the end of the evening, Genrikh Dorov offered his moist, limp hand. ‘Congratulations, comrade marshal.’ But his eyes said: Comrade Stalin once sacked me but now he needs me again. Comrade Stalin wants me to look into you .

Satinov pushed by Dorov but when he was in his car, Beria leaned right in through the window.

‘I’ve heard Mariko is fine,’ he whispered. ‘Silk gloves. Don’t worry.’

‘NO, MY FATHER would never ever discuss planes with us,’ George Satinov insisted.

It was long after midnight in the Lubianka yet the lights burned as always.

‘What about your mother?’ asked Likhachev.

‘I don’t know what they discussed.’

‘You never overheard?’

‘Never. They wouldn’t talk about politics or planes. She’s not interested in military matters – she says Papa can talk about that with the generals.’

‘Which generals?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Did Shako ever come to the house?’

George noticed with alarm that Likhachev did not describe Shako as ‘comrade’. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Come on, George. The Shakos lived in your building. They never came to the house?’

‘Not that I remember.’

‘Do your parents ever argue?’

‘Everyone argues.’

‘About politics?’

‘They don’t discuss politics.’

‘Is your mother a Communist?’

‘Yes, very much so.’

‘Did you know her father was a bourgeois who travelled frequently to Germany between 1918 and 1921?’

‘She never mentioned it.’

‘Is she happy with your apartment and the dacha?’

‘She never complains.’

‘What about your father?’

‘My father never complains about anything. He never says anything much at all.’

‘Andrei Kurbsky, when you were at the Satinovs’ apartment, which rooms did you see?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Did you enter the hall, for example?’

‘Yes.’

‘Describe it.’

‘Very grand. Parquet floor. I’ve never seen such a palace.’

‘Then?’

‘We went into the kitchen.’

‘Who was there?’

‘The whole family and the maid.’

‘Tell me about Comrade Satinov and his wife.’

‘There’s nothing to tell. They seemed close.’

‘The sons?’

‘They’re very respectful of him. Afraid of him.’

‘What did they talk about?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘Your mother’s at home, but we can always arrest her, you know. Surely you remember something?’

‘I think the pilot brother was telling stories about dogfights and aeroplanes.’

‘To Comrade Satinov?’

‘No, to his mother and Mariko and George and me.’

‘Did he mention that the planes were crashing?’

‘No.’

‘After tea, where did you sit?’

‘Me and George went into his father’s study. We sat there for a bit, joking around.’

‘Were there papers on the desk?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘You didn’t look at them?’

‘No.’

‘But did you notice what they were?’

‘No.’

‘But they could have been Politburo protocols or aircraft designs?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Come on, Andrei, concentrate: didn’t you see “Top Secret” written on them?’

Andrei shivered. He was cold and tired. He thought about his mother, sitting alone in that paltry room, waiting for him to come home.

‘Maybe.’

‘Mariko Satinova, how old are you?’ asked Colonel Komarov.

‘I’m six.’

‘Did you see your mama this morning?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re soon going home but since you’re here, I thought we could have a little chat.’

‘OK,’ said Mariko uncertainly. Komarov could see she was struggling to be brave.

‘Is that a little dog?’

‘Yes. I have twenty-five little dogs and they go to my school because they’re all girl dogs and they do lessons, study things like maths and Marxism, just like everyone does at school.’

‘What a fun game, Mariko. Do your mama and papa play?’

‘Not Papa. Papa’s very busy, but Mama plays.’

‘And your brothers?’

‘Yes. A bit but George is always out, Marlen is very serious about the Komsomol, and David is always flying planes.’

‘Does he tell you about the planes?’

‘Yes. They’re dangerous.’

‘Really? Dangerous because the Germans could shoot them down?’

‘Yes, and sometimes they crash.’

‘He told this to your papa?’

‘I can’t quite remember.’

‘What did your papa say about that?’

‘Say hello to the dog!’

‘Hello, dog. What did your papa say about that? Did he blame anyone?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Did your mother and father talk about it?’

‘Is Mama coming soon?’

‘You must have heard your mama talking with Papa? About planes? Crashes?’

‘I don’t know. They whisper sometimes.’

‘About what?’

‘Important things not for children.’

‘Do your dogs ever hear anything?’

Mariko hugged her dog Crumpet, and buried her face in its fur. ‘No, they’re far too busy studying Marxism in the Moscow School for Bitches.’

Senka Dorov had spent a few hours recovering from his panic attack in the warm comfort of the sanatorium.

‘Is it serious? Is he faking?’ Komarov had asked the doctors. ‘If he dies here, you’ll all pay for it! We need him fit and back here as soon as possible.’

The doctors had taken him to the sanatorium on a stretcher wearing an oxygen mask, and brought him lemonade, bread and jam, tea and sugar. The food had given his mind the fuel it needed, but the steel jaws of this vile trap were sinking deeper into his leg with every moment.

Mama or Papa? How could he destroy either? How had it come to this? It was all thanks to that moron Demian, that weasel!

He considered the choice. Papa was so stern, so humourless. This was Bolshevik justice. Wouldn’t Papa understand and say, ‘The Party is always right,’ and, ‘Better shoot a hundred innocents to catch one enemy’? Papa would say, ‘You did the right thing, Senka. If the Party decides I’m guilty then I am guilty – and I did say that!’

Did Papa even love him? He had never shown it. His mama, on the other hand, did so every day. Yet surely her Jewish comments were less serious, so if he chose her, she wouldn’t be arrested? His father’s comments criticized Stalin himself, and Papa could lose his head for that.

Choose Mama and both parents would be fine. That must be the right decision. But what if this was a mine in the hidden minefield? What if it was more serious than he realized? Then he would have destroyed his own mother, the person he adored more than anything in the whole wide world and in all human history!

Senka’s calculations became colder and sharper. A false choice had been placed before him. He knew whichever parent he chose, the Organs would destroy them both, and the family with them. There must be a way out of the labyrinth.

Now he was sitting in the interrogation room and the courtesies, such as they were, were over.

‘Senka, give your testimony,’ said Colonel Komarov.

‘My brother Demian is more wrong than right,’ said Senka. ‘The words are right, but he’s muddled up the speaker.’

‘Just testify, boy, and stop trying to be clever. You may be only ten but on your twelfth birthday you can face the nine grams, the Vishka. Don’t even think of lying or there’ll be nothing left of you for your mother to collect. Did you fake that illness?’

‘I would never do that.’

‘I hope not. Speak now, boy.’

Senka straightened his back. He had made his choice. Now he had to make sure he got it right.