Simon Montefiore - One Night in Winter

‘It’s simple, colonel,’ he said, speaking confidently and lucidly. ‘You have the quotations completely the wrong way round. It was my mother who was talking about the “Genius Boss”, not my father. My father has never ever spoken of the Head of the Soviet Government. Discretion is a religion with him. Everything that the Great Stalin does is correct. Papa regards himself as no more than a servant of the Party, the Great Stalin, the working class. He never uses the word Boss – Khozian – to describe the Head of the Soviet Government.’

‘So who complained about the Genius Boss? Who is the Genius Boss?’

‘My mother complained, and the Genius Boss in our family is… me . She was moaning about how spoilt I am. She was being sarcastic.’

Komarov stopped writing and looked up. ‘But your mother was promoting Jewish-Zionist nationalism. She’s Jewish, isn’t she?’

‘Demian’s confused about that too. I remember it exactly. We were in the dacha and my father – not my mother – my father was complaining about “the Jewish compatriots round here” who need to find a place of their own. But he was talking about our neighbours.’

‘What neighbours?’

‘The Rozenblats, who are always asking to use our tennis court. In the end my father said, no, that was enough; from now on, the Rozenblats, “our Jewish compatriots round here”, needed to get their own place for next year. Papa was tired of sharing with them.’

Komarov ran his truncated fourth finger along his lips. ‘But your father’s not Jewish?’

‘No, my father was raised Russian Orthodox so he couldn’t be guilty of Zionist nationalism, could he? Actually, he was if anything being a little anti-Jewish. So I hope, Colonel Komarov, I’ve answered all your questions. If you want the truth, this is the truth and I swear it before the Party itself. My silly brother told you the right stories but he got them the wrong way round.’

Komarov looked at Senka for a long time. Senka waited, his head throbbing. Would he be hit? Would he ever see his mother again? Then Komarov threw his head back and laughed.

‘You’re cleverer than I thought. And as it happens I have something for you. It’s from your mother.’

‘What is it?’

‘It’s a surprise. A nice one.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Go now.’

FOUR A.M. THE phone rings in the Satinov apartment. Tamara is not really asleep, and wakes to find she is already standing up, phone to her ear. She has not slept since they took Mariko, and not properly since George’s arrest. Every night she skims the surface of sleep, and every morning she feels wretchedly raw. She is not alone: all the parents of the children in the Children’s Case are the same. She sees them at the Golden Gates, trying to smile, but bleeding inside, trying to get through the day with this terrible blade swinging over their heads. Who could have created such a diabolic situation, she wonders, in which they are not allowed even to discuss their anxiety, except at night in whispers, and in dreams they try not to remember?

‘Is Comrade Satinov there?’ The voice on the phone is expressionless.

‘I’m not sure. I can go and see,’ Tamara says.

‘Is that Comrade Satinov’s wife?’

‘Yes?’

‘Be at Lubianka at seven a.m.’

‘Oh my God. What are you telling me?’

‘You may collect your children.’

Tamara bursts into tears and cries out so wildly that Satinov runs into the room, afraid of an even greater catastrophe. But it’s not. It’s good news, he assures her, hugging her. They can’t go back to sleep now. They must be ready to leave for Lubianka.

It was early morning, and Senka had scarcely slept. He was sure something good was about to happen. What was the surprise Komarov had promised him? Was it his mama? Was she coming to take him home? Had he saved her?

All night his ears had whooshed with the roar of his heartbeat pumping the blood around his body with excitement and longing.

‘Wake up, boy!’ Blancmange, the warder, called. ‘Get dressed!’

‘Is there news? Am I going home?’ Senka asked.

Blancmange held up her trowel-like hands – it was forbidden to inform prisoners of their fates. ‘Put on your best, Little Professor! We’ve got a surprise for you. Now close your eyes! Ta-da!’ And there it was, hanging on a coathanger behind her. Senka’s suit, shirt and tie. And his best shoes.

‘My suit! I’ll be so happy to get out of these pyjamas.’

‘Be grateful,’ said Blancmange. ‘Not all our “guests” are that lucky, I can tell you.’

When he was dressed in his beloved suit and a grown-up shirt and tie, Senka ate his breakfast, noting the addition of an extra sugar lump and slice of black bread. Then two guards escorted him towards the interrogation rooms: Is this the way out? he wondered. Is this the way to Mama?

He imagined Dashka’s smile, her opening her arms, her sweet scent.

But the warders opened a door into another interrogation room where Colonel Likhachev, the Lobster, awaited him.

‘But I thought…’ Senka felt as though he was about to cry.

‘I know what you thought,’ said the Lobster, sucking on his cigarette. ‘But if you want to go home, you have to sign this.’ He pushed a small bundle of papers, held together with a paperclip, across the desk.

‘What is it?’ asked Senka.

‘It’s your confession.’

‘My confession? But I already confessed about the notebook.’

‘We need another confession.’

Senka forced the rising spasm of weeping back down his throat again as he wearily tried to calculate what he should do. He had heard his father tell his mother once, ‘There’s only one rule: never confess anything.’ Now he was faced with this. Dimly, he saw his mother disappear into the distance again.

‘It is a record of everything you’ve told us and all you have to do is sign it,’ the Lobster said.

Senka sat down on the hard chair and looked at the papers, suddenly doubting that his mama was there at all. They were tricking him and, for a moment, he let the despair flood through him. Then, gathering his strength once again, he started to read, beginning at the heading ‘Protocol of Interrogation of Semyon Genrikhovich Dorov’. Ahead of him lay page after page of dialogue like a stage play with his part marked ‘Dorov, SG’ on every line. He couldn’t remember it all but it sounded right so he returned to the first page that was in larger type:

I, Semyon Genrikhovich ‘Senka’ Dorov (born 1935), confess that I was a member of an anti-Soviet conspiracy. With a faction of other children at School 801 in an anti-Soviet youth organization named the Fatal Romantics’ Club, I conspired to overthrow the Soviet State and plot acts of terrorism against members of the Politburo.

Signed: …………………………………………

Dated: …………………………………………

‘You want to see your mama?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then sign it and be done with it.’

‘But I was never a member of the club. I was too young. I know I mustn’t sign it.’

‘You’ve already signed one confession.’

‘I did take the notebook. But I never plotted against the government. I’m only ten.’

‘At twelve you’ll be old enough to face the Highest Measure of Punishment.’

Senka flinched.

‘Yes, we’re talking about death. We could just keep you here for a few more months and then: bang. So sign it!’

‘I never plotted and I mustn’t sign. I didn’t do anything!’ Senka could not hold back the tears any more and started to sob.

Likhachev quivered, infuriated by this howling. It was, he decided, very frustrating working with children. ‘Pull yourself together, prisoner,’ he shouted. ‘Sign it!’