Charlotte Hobson - The Vanishing Futurist

Pelyagin reappeared. ‘I think we’ve found them,’ he said shortly. ‘They brought them up to Moscow and put them in a holding cell. There’s a little confusion over their identities, however. I suggest you come with me, Comrade Freely, and identify them formally. They didn’t have their identity cards when they were arrested, apparently – foolish.’ He frowned. ‘We’re on a war footing, you understand, comrade. We have to take all precautions.’

As we left the building a car drew up in front of us and for a moment I gaped at Pelyagin, astonished. I had not been inside a car since the Kobelevs’ was requisitioned; in the circumstances it seemed a bizarre, almost disgusting luxury to purr so gently and warmly along the bitter streets.

‘A treat for you, eh?’ Pelyagin said suddenly, genially, misreading my silence. ‘Perhaps one of these days we’ll go for a drive together?’

It was an ordinary day for him – I must have looked incredulous.

He frowned. ‘You don’t care to? I see…’

‘Oh, no – yes, of course… I’m grateful to you, but I don’t…’ I stammered.

Pelyagin pursed his lips and looked out of the window. At the Lubyanka I followed him into the building. Pelyagin strode through the hall, past the duty sergeant, motioning me to follow him, and clattered down steps. ‘Through there,’ he said shortly, pointing out a door. He put a paper into my hand. ‘Show this to the officer on duty, he will tell you what to do. They have been alerted to your arrival. Now I must be getting back to work.’

‘Thank you, thank you so much,’ I stammered. ‘Comrade, I am so indebted to you – please…’ I don’t know quite what I was pleading with him for, but in any case he was not in the mood to grant it. He turned his back and was gone.

I looked at the paper. It was signed by Pelyagin himself, with his title: Deputy Administrator, Cheka, Krasnopresnensky District. Cheka? Hadn’t he said he was in distribution? I pushed open the door cautiously. It opened onto a gallery with a bench, where two soldiers were sitting with their backs to me. ‘Excuse me? I’ve been sent by Comrade Pelyagin…’

The soldiers looked at me dully. ‘What do you want?’

I passed them the paper. ‘I’ve been sent to identify two men that you are holding mistakenly.’

‘Sez who?’ one of them drawled. My hands were sweating; they were obviously illiterate.

‘Says Comrade Emil Pelyagin.’ I spoke in my most schoolmistressy tone. ‘Would you like me to summon him and tell him that you don’t believe me?’

The younger got up wearily. ‘All right, all right. Come and have a look.’

I stepped onto the gallery and for the first time saw down into the cellar below. It was hot and smelt rotten, but it was so quiet my footsteps echoed. I looked down and to my shock saw a large number of people below, unmoving, staring up at me.

‘Gentlemen.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Comrades, please – I’m looking for Pavel Aleksandrovich Kobelev and Vladimir Vladimirovich Yakov.’

Nothing. They seemed frozen.

‘Pasha, Volodya, are you there?’ It came out as a scream, like a madwoman.

Suddenly a faint voice, ‘We’re here, we’re here…’

Two old men were pushing through the crowd, thin, ill – my eyes ran over them without stopping, then flicked back onto their faces: it was Pasha, exhausted, but smiling; Volodya behind him, bent over, gaunt.

‘Get up here, lads,’ said the guard. They came awkwardly up the stairs and stood before us, handcuffed. ‘Can you identify these fellows, then, comrade?’

‘Yes – Pavel Aleksandrovich Kobelev, Vladimir Vladimirovich Yakov. Pelyagin has vouched for them. You’ve been holding them wrongly! It’s a disgrace!’

‘Quite a firebrand, isn’t she, lads?’ said the guard, raising his eyebrows at them, but to my amazement he was leading them out of the room and up the stairs to the duty sergeant. As we left the cellar a few voices called out. Pasha and Volodya turned but the other soldier was up on his feet, pointing his pistol over the balcony, shouting at them to be quiet.

There was paperwork, signing this and that in triplicate. The handcuffs were removed, and they were free.

Back at Gagarinsky Lane the boys stripped off their clothes in the hallway to be fumigated and washed. Kolenka ran to fetch Sonya and Nikita from the Ministry. At last we were sitting around the stove preparing the best meal we could run to: slices of sausage, kasha with some onions and beetroot, rusks with raspberry jam and tea.

‘We didn’t know you were so well connected, Gerty,’ said Sonya, rather stilted. ‘I owe you an apology.’

I didn’t meet her eye. ‘No, no. It’s me who should apologise to you. You were right.’

‘You appeared like an angel in that stinking room,’ said Pasha, grinning in the old way. ‘I thought to myself, I know that accent, just like the Empress – she murders Russian like Gerty.’

I laughed, and suddenly caught Sonya’s eye, and stopped. Then Vera, who had hardly said a word since they returned, burst into tears and ran out of the room.

‘What’s the matter with her?’ asked Volodya.

‘Perhaps you should go out and have a word with her.’

‘You’ll find things a little changed around here,’ said Fyodor, into the silence. ‘The IRT is now being run with strict attention to efficiency and punctuality. You will see, here, the members’ time cards, which they have completed for yesterday; we had to speak to Vera yesterday about cutting down on the time she took to complete her chore, which was to dispose of the commune’s waste…’

‘Oh for God’s sake, Fedya, do shut up,’ snapped Nikita.

‘Why can’t you let him have his say?’ demanded Marina fiercely.

‘Well, you’re cheerful, all of you,’ said Pasha, after a pause. ‘If we’re not having meetings any more, then I think I’ll get some rest. Takes it out of you, being rescued.’

There was a silence, and then Nikita and Sonya shuffled to their feet and announced that as there wasn’t room for all of us to sleep in this room, they would make up beds in his workshop.

‘Won’t you freeze?’ I said stupidly, but they shook their heads, Sonya looking at me a little contemptuously, I thought. Oh, I hated her then. ‘Are you… are you keeping the rules, Sonya? You know it’s in the commune’s interest to be told.’

‘Oh, it’s in the commune’s interest, is it?’ mimicked Sonya.

I could barely get my words out. ‘You have a duty to tell the truth! You can’t hide it from us, you know! Are you… are you…’

‘No, we are not,’ said Sonya firmly, hands on hips. ‘All right? We are keeping the rules. How dare you even suggest such a thing! You should do the Model T for your mean, suspicious thoughts, Gerty. Don’t you trust anyone? Don’t you even trust Nikita?’

In retrospect this moment has the feeling of a great vessel preparing for departure. Doors slam shut, one by one, and rotating locks swivel. Safety checks are carried out, one, two, three; navigation orders given and noted down. Each member of the team is in his or her position; they know what is expected of them; it is too late, now, to deviate from the chosen course. We do not know if doubts assailed the captain of the ship.

After Pasha’s and Volodya’s return, Nikita shut himself away in his workshop. Sonya came out once or twice a day to fetch food. ‘We are hard at work,’ she would only say to my queries. ‘The Capsules are nearing completion.’

Since it had emerged that Vera was pregnant, she and Volodya had ceased to make any attempt to hide that they were a couple. I avoided them as much as possible.