“The other ones took all our books.” Her mouth twisted, as if she were trying not to cry. “All of them.”
“When did this happen?”
“The day after-I was…” She paused, her brow furrowing as if the memory was somehow confusing. “I was indisposed on the day of his death. The Militia-you-wouldn’t allow me to see him, you see. I had to spend some time in the apartment of an acquaintance. I slept for a long time.”
“I remember-Dr Weiss, wasn’t it?”
She nodded.
“Do you mind me asking what time on Tuesday they came for the books?”
She looked puzzled, as if trying to work out why he might want that particular piece of information.
“I’m just curious,” he added. “No particular reason.”
“In the afternoon; they came at about four o’clock. It took them hours-they had to list each book for the receipt and some of the men could barely read and write. They took a book on birds. What could that have to do with his work? They took novels, dictionaries-even a book of recipes. Everything.”
Korolev was equally puzzled-the only reason he could think of for stripping the shelves would be because the books might be confidential. But shouldn’t they have sent specialists in that case? What was the point in taking useless material? Unless, of course, it had all been organized in a great rush.
“I presume they took his papers as well?”
“Yes,” she said. “As I told you-everything.”
“I’d like to look around in a moment, if that’s all right.”
“Of course, do whatever you want. Ask whatever you want.”
“If we could go through the events of the morning of his death to start with. That would be very helpful to me.”
She looked away, out the window at the blue sky, and when she spoke he had to lean forward to hear her.
“We rose at six, as we always do.” She hesitated, and her mouth twisted once again. “Did. The whistle from the Red October chocolate factory woke us. It always-did. We performed our callisthenics. To the radio. And then we washed and dressed.”
There was a program every morning that took citizens through a series of physical exercises. Sometimes Korolev listened to it himself.
“And so you breakfasted,” Korolev continued for her, when it began to feel as if she’d forgotten he was there.
“Yes,” she said, and sighed. “My husband went to the institute earlier than usual, at around seven. That was the last time I saw him. I left the apartment at eight.”
He hoped she didn’t cry-it was always awkward when citizens cried. Perhaps he should have asked Slivka to talk to her.
“How was the professor? I mean, what was his mood?”
“He was concerned about some developments at the institute, I think, but he didn’t say what. That was why he wanted to go into work early. He said he wanted to check something.”
“And by concerned you mean worried?”
“Perhaps.”
Korolev made a quick note.
“I understand you’re also a doctor.”
“A psychologist,” she said, but the correction was half-hearted.
“At an orphanage, I believe.”
“Yes, I assist the staff with the children’s development.”
Korolev took a moment to consider his next question. The fact was that all morning he’d been wondering what the connection was between the professor and Goldstein’s orphanage. After all, if Rodinov was to be believed, merely talking to Goldstein had been enough to have him picked up by the Twelfth Department’s people. And if he hadn’t spoken to Goldstein, then likely as not Yuri wouldn’t be missing. He took a deep breath.
“I heard the professor also worked with children-with orphans, in fact.”
It was a shot in the dark but when she looked up he felt he had her full attention for the first time.
“I’ve been instructed not to discuss my husband’s research in any way.” She spoke sharply.
“Which orphanage is it you work with, Comrade?” Korolev asked, and the question hit the mark. “It’s the Vitsin Street orphanage, isn’t it?” he said, and she nodded reluctantly. “What is it you do there, exactly?”
She examined him for a moment and Korolev was sure she was going to tell him nothing, but in the end she merely shrugged.
“You have to understand the type of children we’re dealing with. First there are the besprizorniki-the street children-who may have had no education at all, let alone a socialist one. Then there are the children of the enemies of the people, who may have been educated incorrectly. While the street children have little concept of their duties to the State and the Party, the children of enemies can be even more resistant. I assist the staff, using scientific techniques, naturally, to educate the children in proper socialist values. And, in the case of the children of enemies, to reeducate them.”
Azarova spoke in a monotone, almost as if she were reading from a prepared speech. Korolev wondered if this was how she taught at the orphanage-if so, he could understand why the besprizorniki fought tooth and nail to stay well clear of such places.
“Scientific techniques?” Korolev asked. “Such as?”
“What has this to do with the death of my husband?” Azarova asked wearily. Korolev did his best to smile reassuringly.
“You’ll have to forgive me, Comrade Azarova. My job is to gather together all available information, whether it seems directly relevant or not. An investigation is like a puzzle-sometimes the insignificant pieces are the ones that show the way to the solution.”
“If you say so.” Azarova looked doubtful.
“So,” Korolev said, returning to the attack, “what kind of techniques?”
“There are various techniques that can help make children, as well as adults, more receptive to correct mental processes. Mostly, we just encourage good behavior and right thinking with rewards, and then we discourage bad behavior and incorrect thinking with…” She paused. “Other methods.”
Korolev wished she’d just said “punishment.” “Other methods” sounded worse somehow.
“To speak in the most general terms, we indoctrinate the children. We teach them the truth of Marxist-Leninist theory-in an accessible way-and use this as a framework for their future development into right-thinking socialist citizens.”
The look she gave him contained a challenge and Korolev realized he wouldn’t get any more from Azarova on this topic without a fight-and he’d other matters he wanted to discuss with her before it got to that. All the same, he made a note to find out more about these so-called techniques-and this orphanage. He’d an idea it wouldn’t be time wasted.
“So, you spent the whole morning at this orphanage?”
“Until not long after eleven. And then I came back and-well.” She put a hand to her mouth.
“It must have been a terrible shock-my sympathies again.”
She nodded and then looked away.
“I must ask about your relationship with your husband, I’m afraid,” Korolev said.
A solitary tear rolled down her cheek but then she seemed to gather herself.
“We were each other’s support in our struggle for the great aims of the Revolution and Soviet science-what more is there to say?”
“Not much, I’m sure,” Korolev said, thinking it sounded like a strange sort of marriage. But, then again, perhaps that’s why he was divorced.
“Did you ever argue?” he asked.
“Argue? We’d no time for arguments. Our union was intended to strengthen our ability to serve the Party, not to undermine it. Did we argue? That question implies a catalog of concepts that were alien to our marriage and our commitment to the Revolution. No, we didn’t argue and, no, I’d nothing to do with his murder.”
Korolev raised an eyebrow. He didn’t doubt that she was sincere-there was no emotion in what she’d said, just a bald statement of fact. But still. He decided to change direction.
“Were you aware your husband met with Dr. Shtange on the morning of his murder?”