She spat the blood from her mouth and cried out: calling for help, desperate. This was a freight train, there was no one to hear or see her. She got up and ran, reaching the edge of the woods, not slowing down, smashing through the branches that jutted out. Her plan was to loop around and double back onto the tracks towards town. She couldn’t hide here: he was too close, there was too much moonlight. Even though she knew it would be better to remain focused on running she gave in to temptation. She had to look. She had to know where he was. She turned around.
He was gone. She couldn’t see him. The train was still thundering past. She must have lost him when she entered the forest. She changed direction, running back towards the town, towards safety.
The man stepped out from behind a tree, catching hold of her waist. They crashed down into the snow. He was on top of her, ripping at her jacket and shouting. She couldn’t hear him over the sound of the train. All she could see were his teeth and tongue. Then she remembered: she’d prepared for this moment. She reached into her coat pocket, feeling for a chisel, stolen from work. She’d used it before but only as a threat, only to show she could fight if fighting was required. She clutched the wooden handle. She’d get one chance at this. As he put his hand up her dress she brought the metal tip into the side of his head. He sat upright, clutching his ear. She sliced at him again, cutting the hand that clutched his ear. She should have struck again and again, she should have killed him, but her desire to get away was too strong. She scrambled backwards on all fours like an insect, still holding the bloody chisel.
The man dropped onto his hands and knees, crawling after her. Part of his earlobe hung loose, dangling from a flap of skin. His expression twisted with anger. He lunged for her ankles. She managed to keep out of reach, barely, outpacing him until she backed into a tree trunk. With her brought to a sudden stop, he caught up, took hold of her ankle. She slashed at his hand, jabbing and cutting. He grabbed her wrist, pulling her towards him. Face to face, she leaned forward, trying to bite his nose. With his free hand he clasped her neck, squeezing, keeping out of her reach. She gasped, trying to break free, but his grip was too strong. She was suffocating. She threw her weight sideways. The two of them tumbled — rolling in the snow, over and over each other.
Inexplicably he let go, releasing her neck. She coughed, catching her breath. The man was still on top, pinning her down, but no longer looking in her direction. His attention was on something else, something to the side of them. She turned her head.
Sunken into the snow beside her was the naked body of a young girl. Her skin was pale, almost translucent. Her hair was blonde, almost white. Her mouth was wide open and had been stuffed with dirt. It formed a mound, rising above her thin blue lips. The girl’s arms and legs and face appeared to be uninjured, covered in a light layer of snow which had been disturbed when they’d rolled into it. Her torso had been savaged. The organs were exposed, ripped, torn. Much of the skin was missing, cut away or peeled back, as though her body had been attacked by a pack of wolves.
Ilinaya looked up at her pursuer. He seemed to have forgotten about her. He was staring at the girl’s body. He began to retch, doubled over and was sick. Without thinking she put a consoling hand on his back. Remembering herself, remembering who this man was and what he’d done to her, she pulled her hand away, got up and ran. This time her instincts didn’t let her down. She broke through the edge of the forest, running towards the station. She had no idea if the man was chasing her or not. This time she didn’t scream, didn’t slow down and didn’t look back.
Moscow
14 March
Leo opened his eyes. A flashlight blinded him. He didn’t need to check his watch to know the time. Arresting hour — four in the morning. He got out of bed, heart pounding. In the dark he staggered, disorientated, bumping into one man, pushed to the side. He stumbled, regained his balance. The lights came on. Adjusting to the brightness he saw three officers: young men, not much older than eighteen. They were armed. Leo didn’t recognize them but he knew the kind of officers they were: low ranking, unthinkingly obedient: they’d follow whatever orders they’d been given. They’d be violent without hesitation: any slight resistance would be answered with extreme force. They gave off a smell of cigarette smoke and alcohol. Leo supposed these men hadn’t been to bed yet: drinking all night, staying up for this assignment. Alcohol would make them unpredictable, volatile. To survive these next few minutes Leo would have to be cautious, submissive. He hoped Raisa understood that as well.
Raisa was standing in her nightclothes, shivering but not from cold. She wasn’t sure whether it was shock or fear or anger. She couldn’t stop shaking. But she wouldn’t look away. She wasn’t embarrassed; let them be embarrassed at their violation, let them see her crumpled nightdress, her untidy hair. No, they were indifferent: it was all the same to them, part of their job. She saw no sensitivity in these boys’ eyes. They were dulclass="underline" flicking from side to side like a lizard — reptilian eyes. Where did the MGB find these boys with souls of lead? They made them that way, she was sure of it. She glanced at Leo. He was standing with his hands in front, his head dropped in order to avoid eye contact. Humility, meekness: maybe that was the smart way to behave. But she didn’t feel smart right now. There were three thugs in their bedroom. She wanted him defiant, angry. Surely that was the natural reaction? Any ordinary man would feel outrage. Leo was political even now.
One of the men left the room, to return almost immediately holding two small cases.
— This is all you can take. You can carry nothing on your person except your clothes and your papers. In one hour we leave whether you’re ready or not.
Leo stared at the cases, canvas stretched tight over a timber frame. They offered a modest space, enough for a day trip. He turned to his wife.
— Wear as much as you can.
He glanced behind him. One of the officers was watching, smoking.
— Can you wait outside?
— Don’t waste time making requests. The answer to everything is no.
Raisa got changed, sensing this guard’s reptile eyes roaming over her body. She wore as many clothes as she could reasonably manage: layers on top of layers. Leo did the same. It might have been comical, in other circumstances, their limbs swollen by cotton and wool. Dressed, she grappled with the question of what, of all their belongings, they should bring and what they were forced to leave behind. She examined the case. It was no more than ninety centimetres wide, maybe sixty centimetres high and twenty centimetres deep. Their lives had to reduce to fit this space.
Leo knew there was a chance they’d been told to pack merely as a way of being moved without any of the emotional fuss, the struggle which came with the realization that they were being sent to their deaths. It was always easier to move people around if they clung to the notion, no matter how small, that they were going to survive. However, what could he do? Give up? Fight? He made several quick calculations. Precious space had to be wasted with the inclusion of The Book of Propagandists and The Short Course of the Bolshevik Party, neither of which could be abandoned without it being construed as a subversive political gesture. In their current predicament such recklessness was nothing less than suicidal. He grabbed the books, putting them in the case, the first objects either of them had packed. Their young guard was watching everything, seeing what went in, what choices they made. Leo touched Raisa’s arm.