‘Who is it from this time, Comrade Babitsky?’
‘Unit four.’
‘Ah, the squabblers.’
‘Prisoner Elkin and prisoner Titov. They’re not speaking to each other.’
Jens rested his elbows on his desk and chewed the end of his pen. It gave him such intense pleasure to hold a pen after all those years without that he was reluctant to put it down even for a moment. He’d even been known to sleep with one wrapped up in his tight fist, a talisman against the nightmares.
‘You have to understand,’ he said, ‘that scientists and engineers like to argue. It’s how they sharpen their minds.’
‘Then prisoner Elkin and prisoner Titov should have bloody sharp minds.’
Jens laughed. ‘They do.’
He remembered in the camp, the starvation of the mind. Starvation of the body he’d learned to live with, but a blank nothing in the mind was a form of death. Twelve long years of dying.
‘Tell me, Babitsky, are you married?’
‘I was,’ the guard said gruffly.
‘What happened?’
‘The usual. She got her tail tied up with my neighbour, a metal worker from Omsk, and left.’
‘Any children?’
His big face grew soft and he chuckled. ‘My son, Georgi. He’s five.’
‘Do you still see him?’
‘Da. Once a month I take the train to Leningrad. That’s where my boy is living. It’s better now I’m here in Moscow. When I was stationed in Siberia I only saw him at Easter time.’
Siberia. Jens studied his guard and was astonished at the way he could look at this man without anger. Maybe that was a necessary part of the process, the way of returning to the human race. It was ironic. Babitsky didn’t recognise him. Now that Jens was well fed, clean shaven, and wore a pair of rimless spectacles for close work, the guard didn’t remember him. But Jens remembered Babitsky, oh yes, he remembered him well. In Trovitsk camp Babitsky wasn’t nearly so polite. He possessed a liking for jabbing his rifle butt between fragile shoulder blades.
‘Friis,’ Babitsky leaned closer, ‘I like the way you don’t look at me like I’m some piece of shit on the bottom of your boot, the way some of the scientists here do.’
Jens looked at him, startled.
Babitsky lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘I heard something the other day, something I thought you might want to know.’
‘What’s that?’ Jens slid the end of the pen into his mouth.
‘They’re thinking of bringing in a new team to finish this project. I don’t know what the fuck it is that you do, but someone up the ladder obviously thinks you lot aren’t doing the job you were brought here for. So you’re out.’
‘No.’
‘Oh yes, so just watch your step.’
Jens froze. His face hurt where his teeth were clamped in a vice around the pen. ‘Who said?’
‘Colonel Tursenov.’
‘No,’ Jens said again. ‘He can’t do that.’
‘Don’t be stupid, Friis. Of course he can.’
‘But it’s our design, it’s the result of all this team’s hard work, our careful calculations and efforts, our successes and, yes, our errors too. He can’t take it away, it’s…,’ his voice was growing agitated but he was unable to stop it. ‘It’s my project.’
The words were out. He couldn’t take them back.
Babitsky gave him a look that placed them firmly back in the roles of guard and prisoner. ‘Friis, whatever the hell it is you and the team do here, sure as fuck it isn’t yours. It’s the Soviet State ’s project. It’s Stalin’s project. So don’t think that just because you’re using your brain you’ve suddenly got any rights here. You don’t. You’re still a nobody, a non-person. A prisoner. Don’t ever forget that.’
The big guard walked out of the workroom and slammed the door behind him with relish. The key grated as it turned in the lock.
40
Lydia left the house early while Liev and Elena still slept. She wanted time to herself, needed room to breathe, space to think about Chang. But she could no more think straight than she could walk straight on the city’s pavements, which at this hour were still thick with mounds of ice. She was not thinking of him, but being him. There was no other word for it. Being a part of him, as he was a part of her. Already she missed the physical weight of him and the feel of his skin next to hers. Her feet moved faster, stretching her stride.
‘No, Elena, you’re wrong,’ she whispered as she walked. ‘I trust Chang with my life ten times over.’
‘Talking to yourself?’
It was Edik. He’d sneaked up on her as she crossed the street and fallen into step beside her. He carried his usual pack on his chest and the little dog’s domed head rose out of it, golden eyes as round and watchful as an owl’s.
‘Do you need me to take another message?’ he asked.
‘No, not today. Thanks anyway.’
He looked disappointed. ‘So where are you going?’
‘To queue for bread.’
‘Can I come?’
‘Of course.’
She wasn’t sure whether it was her company he wanted or the bread. Either was fine with her. They walked together past a row of shops, enjoying the bright morning sunshine despite the snow thick on the ground. She noticed he was up on his toes again, bouncing with energy, eyes darting everywhere. It was, she decided, his eyes that betrayed him. He had thief’s eyes. She must warn him of that, but not now.
‘Are you warmer in your new coat?’ she asked.
He grinned. ‘It’s all right.’
‘You must thank Elena.’
‘If I thank her nicely, do you think she’ll boil me some more pelmeni? And cook a sausage for Misty?’ He winked one of his blue eyes slyly at her. ‘I needn’t bother with thanks if she won’t.’
Lydia laughed, putting an arm across his thin shoulders as they walked down the street and, to her surprise, he didn’t shrug it off.
Alexei felt the sunlight settle on his skin. He was standing on the steps of the Cathedral of Christ the Redeemer and relished this moment of stillness. The last twenty-four hours had been anything but still. Hell, his head felt heavy from the night before. Too much wine and too many cigarettes. He closed his eyes. Minutes passed. He thought about Jens Friis and offered up a small prayer to the God he didn’t believe in. Let him be alive. On the steps of God’s glorious house, surely He would listen if He was in there.
‘Hello, Alexei. So you got here at last.’
He didn’t bother opening his eyes. He was sure the voice was coming from inside his own head but it was so real he smiled, conjuring up the teasing stare that would go with the words.
‘Alexei?’
A hand touched his arm. Dimly something jarred. He realised he was falling asleep standing up, like a lazy old horse, and he opened his eyes with an effort. She was here, right in front of him, her hand on his arm holding him upright, and it occurred to him that she was swaying. Or was it him?
‘Alexei,’ she said softly and kissed his cheek.
He felt the warmth of her small arm tuck through his as she led him on to a tram. It was crowded, full of bodies wrapped in fufaikas and headscarves and battered old cloth caps, but Lydia pushed her way to find a seat for him. She stood over him, hanging on to a strap, and he had the odd sensation that she was guarding him.
The windows had steamed up, boxing him in, so he had little idea of where they were heading. Each time the doors clanked open he caught a glimpse of streets he didn’t know as people piled on and off, but he was more disconcerted by the care with which Lydia was keeping anyone from jostling against him, and the frequent glances she directed his way. They were so attentive, full of a gentleness he’d not seen in his sister before. Where had that come from? Where were the sparks and the fire and the impatience? Her concern worried him. Did he really look that bad? Did he need to be treated like a sick kitten?