A teacher, Korolev thought to himself, should teach-not express opinions on their student’s parents, even positive ones.
“Whoever he is,” Korolev said, “you weren’t supposed to tell anyone about the medal, were you?”
Yuri shook his head to indicate it hadn’t been a disclosure he’d made lightly.
“I’m sorry-but I’m not allowed to keep secrets from Pavel Anatoliyevich. A Pioneer must always be honest with the leadership. And he wanted to know about you.”
Korolev felt his attention sharpen.
“When was this, Yuri? When was he asking you these questions?”
“In March-after you visited. He wanted to know all about you. To make sure I came from a good Socialist background. When I told him you were a captain with the Moscow Militia and had been awarded the Order of the Red Star, he thought I was lying-but he must have investigated it, because later on he apologized to me in front of the whole class. He said you’d done the State a great service and promoted me to Team Leader on the spot.”
“He did, did he?” Korolev wondered how a teacher of primary-school children from Zagorsk was able to find out what he’d done to earn the medal. Particularly when most of Moscow CID didn’t know-and didn’t dare ask either. “What other questions did he ask, when he was asking them?”
“The same he asks all of us-about the loyalty of our parents. If our parents express opinions against Soviet Power. Whether our parents engage in antisocial behavior-whether they are cultists. We have to give a list of the books we have at home before we can even join.”
It seemed that to Yuri this was as commonplace as being asked what your favorite color was. Not that Korolev was surprised-everyone knew that Pioneers were told their first loyalty was to the State, rather than their family. It was why adults were careful what they discussed in front of children-in case something might be misinterpreted by young ears or, even worse, not misinterpreted at all.
“You had to give them a list of Zhenia’s books?”
“Every single one. Some of the kids’ folks have no books at all-they’re the lucky ones.”
It occurred to Korolev that they weren’t just lucky, but sensible as well. Who knew which writers might be out of favor at any one time-these things weren’t always announced. He sighed and Yuri looked up at him, his eyes wide and his mouth curving downward.
“Is it because of the list that Mother’s in trouble?”
Korolev had been waiting for an opportunity to discuss Zhenia’s situation, and this, it seemed, was it. He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“What trouble, Yuri?”
“I don’t know,” Yuri said, his face a picture of misery. Two fat tears rolled down his cheeks.
“You probably know more than you think-tell me why you think she’s in trouble for a start.”
Yuri pushed a hand across his face and looked up to meet Korolev’s gaze.
“Some men came last week. They took away Mother’s papers and some of her books.”
It came out little louder than a whisper. Korolev leaned forward.
“These men, Yuri,” Korolev asked. “Who were they?”
“They didn’t say-they only said they had a warrant. They brought the house manager and the old woman from the bakery with them, but they just sat around.”
“Did the men have uniforms?”
“No.”
“I see.” The house manager and the old woman would be witnesses, required by Soviet law to be there during the search-which meant it was a formal investigation of some kind. The men had almost certainly been Chekists.
“Tell me everything they did and said, Yuri. From the beginning. And everything about this Pavel Anatoliyevich fellow as well.”
And, in between the sobs and the tears, Yuri did as he was asked, and Korolev liked little of what he heard. The search itself wasn’t likely to have come up with anything much-not in the papers anyway. Zhenia was no counterrevolutionary-on the contrary, she was a loyal Party member of twenty-odd years standing. But books could produce unforeseen problems-for all he knew, Lenin would end up on a forbidden list one of these days. Babel said there were librarians whose fulltime jobs it was to burn banned works, and others who spent their days erasing references to the arrested and exiled from the books that were left.
“And after they went,” Yuri said, finishing his story. “After they went, Grechko-the house manager-he spat on the floor. On our floor. He said we were saboteurs and Trotskyists-all of us. And Mother said nothing-just cleaned it up and carried on as if nothing had happened. And then Grandfather made tea.”
Korolev took a deep breath. “Don’t worry about that fellow Grechko-he knows nothing. He’s like a dog barking to show he’s there.”
No, Grechko was no threat-just another citizen keen to make sure he was the one spitting and not been spat on. The bigger worry was this damned teacher and what Yuri might have said to him-but the boy was in enough of a state without asking him further questions. At least for the moment.
“I’ll bet he told stories, to those men-Grechko, I mean. I’ll bet he did.”
There was a bitterness in Yuri’s voice that didn’t seem entirely natural and Korolev found that he was examining his son very carefully, an uncomfortable suspicion growing.
What if Yuri had been the one telling the stories?
CHAPTER TWELVE
Of course, Korolev reminded Yuri that Zhenia was a Party member of long standing, and that everyone knew she was as true a comrade as ever breathed-that there was no possibility she could be considered disloyal to the State. What else was he supposed to do? Tell the boy his mother was, likely as not, in great danger?
Perhaps Yuri believed him-he hoped so-but when the boy had dried his tears, it seemed as if he’d lost the power of speech. Maybe he was exhausted by the journey or their conversation, or both, or it could be he was embarrassed for having cried in front of him, or it might even have been something else altogether-Korolev couldn’t be sure and Yuri wasn’t telling. The boy just sat on the veranda steps, carving a stick he’d found lying on the grass, and showing no interest in anything else whatever.
Korolev left him to it and tried to place another call to Zhenia in Zagorsk, but the operator told him a line was down somewhere between here and there, and that it would be the evening at least before he could get through. It made him feel like punching the wall but what was the point in that? He’d only add bruised knuckles to his troubles.
* * *
Korolev had a lot on his mind as they walked through the trees toward the river. The more he thought about it the more it seemed a worrying coincidence that this news about Zhenia should arrive at the same time as the two men on the station platform. If they were State Security, then might they be following him because of Zhenia? They often worked like that-if suspicion fell on an individual it wasn’t long before it fell on their friends and family, their coworkers and even neighbors. Even if he hadn’t been with Zhenia for some time now, he could still be at risk. He needed to talk to her, yet he knew that might increase the risk. It was a dilemma.
At least Yuri had revived enough to now be whistling. He was walking beside Korolev and, even if he was avoiding his eye as he whittled his damned stick with that little pearl-handled pocket knife of his, he seemed cheerier. Maybe he’d believed him after all.
Was his behavior normal though? It seemed odd to be so upset and then, not an hour later, to be whistling tunelessly as if nothing had ever happened. Korolev scratched his head-he didn’t know much about small boys except what he remembered from his own youth. And since he’d left school at ten to work for a butcher in Khitrovka, he wasn’t sure his memories were that useful-boys grew up quickly in those days. Perhaps there was a book he could read.
They stepped out from the trees onto a grassy expanse that stretched down to the slow-moving river-the slope dotted with sunbathers and picnickers. There was a workers’ rest home on the other side of the bridge-at least some of them must be from there-and the lean youths gathered around the volleyball net by the far trees would be from the Komsomol camp past the cemetery. It was a complete cross-section of Soviet society, in any event. Some of the citizens had the trappings of relative prosperity-a crisp white shirt or a summer dress of a quality that couldn’t be bought in an ordinary store-while others looked as though they might be factory workers or the like. Children ran backward and forward, wet hair shining in the summer sun and watched over by women in white headscarves.