Soldiers die alone.
So much has happened in just a few years. Stalin also died eventually, sick and alone in his bed, because no one dared to disturb him. The new leader is called Nikita Khrushchev and, in common with everyone who had held that position, he carried out a purge when he took over. Lavrenti Beria, Stalin’s spymaster, was quickly condemned and executed and, once he was gone, Comrade Karrek had to leave his post. Karrek had done his duty as the governor of Lubyanka Prison, and no punishment awaited him, just a small state pension and total obscurity.
Karrek was evicted from his office, and he took it very hard. Only three years after Beria’s death, Karrek’s liver collapsed, destroyed by his drinking. The major was already thirsty beforehand, but once the great leader’s protective hands were gone Karrek went into freefall in a sea of vodka, like so many who had worked for the security of their country and dedicated their lives to tracking down the enemies of the people.
Towards the end, there was a look of terror in his eyes. He seemed to be waiting for something.
‘I’ve counted them, all those to whom I administered the ultimate punishment under the law,’ Karrek whispered, staring at Vlad. ‘You probably think that’s impossible, but I had a number inside my head, and I kept a tally of every shot.’
Vlad didn’t want to ask about the number, but Karrek coughed and went on. ‘Twelve thousand, three hundred and five.’ He lifted his right hand, the one that shook most after all the recoils. ‘By this... this hand. How does that sound?’
‘Incomprehensible,’ Vlad said.
Karrek was still staring at him with glassy eyes, but Vlad lowered his gaze and looked at his own right hand. For the first time, Aron thought about what it had done, and how often.
Had the index finger pulled the trigger thousands of times? Definitely.
And how many blows to backs and feet and heads with the dubinka? The number was incalculable. Most of those who had suffered were men, but there were women, too. Never children, however. There were sadists within the organization who beat children, even killed them — but not Vlad. His limit was the age of fifteen. Or thereabouts.
Traitors and enemies of the people. They got what they deserved.
Karrek died with a sigh. He fell asleep quietly and peacefully in his bed, unlike the twelve thousand, three hundred and five.
It is October, and Sputnik is whirling around in space, spinning and bleeping.
Aron is walking around Moscow, every bit as alone as the satellite. However, he thinks he sees familiar faces everywhere on the streets, and that frightens him.
Last week, he was recognized outside Kursky Station; he is sure of it. A middle-aged woman stopped just a few metres away and stared at him with terror in her eyes. What had Vlad done to her? Used the dubinka on her back? Kept her awake for three days? Or had he just broken her son’s arms, or shot her husband?
Aron doesn’t remember.
Whatever Vlad did, it was in a good cause.
A higher goal, a better future. Vlad and his colleagues had worked hard down in the cellar, clearing away one enemy after another, always looking to the future.
Is this the future? Has it arrived?
Aron has his doubts. He walks the streets and thinks about running away. Going to the Swedish embassy, a building he has never been anywhere near, or to Ovir, the official bureau for visa issues and registration, and telling them everything.
It is evening, a cold autumn evening, and Vlad seeks refuge from Moscow’s icy winds in an Azerbaijani restaurant not far from his apartment. He sits down at a corner table and orders vodka. He will have a kebab later, but the vodka is his main aim.
A chilled glass covered in condensation arrives, and Vlad drinks a silent toast to Stalin. Down with Khrushchev, the hypocrite who is himself up to his neck in blood.
He is drinking heavily for the first time in his life. The alcohol makes Aron feel sick, but Vlad orders one glass after another. When he has emptied his fifth and felt the vodka worm its way down into his belly, he looks up and sees his dead NKVD colleagues sitting at the table with him. They encourage him: keep on drinking! His stepfather, Sven, is sitting on his left; he and Aron are the same age now. Vladimir from the Ukraine is on his right, with shattered legs.
Old Grisha is there, too, and his stylish colleague Grigori Trushkin, whom Vlad interrogated for several nights until Trushkin was broken. But Trushkin is smiling and nodding at him. Drink, Comrade! So many summers, so many winters.
Vlad raises his glass to the dead, over and over again. He empties each glass methodically; he closes his eyes after the eleventh or twelfth and feels the room spinning. He is a satellite, spinning out into space.
This is what it’s like. This is what it’s like to be free and damned at the same time. Stupefyingly lonely, and increasingly drunk and sick.
Aron doesn’t remember any more.
Does he get thrown out of the restaurant, muttering in Swedish, or does he stagger out of his own accord? All he knows is that, suddenly, he is on his knees on the pavement, with his head hanging down and saliva dribbling from his mouth.
He has to get home; he will freeze to death out here. So he tries to stand up.
Then everything goes black, and when he comes round he sees nothing but cobbles. He has fallen over.
Where is he? He has no idea. He loses consciousness again.
Darkness.
A hand is shaking his shoulder. A slender hand, and he can hear a woman’s voice: ‘Are you all right, soldier?’
Her name is Ludmila, and her middle name is Stalina, but she never uses it. She calls herself Mila, and she helps him home. Once she has got him into bed, he looks at her and tells her, or tries to tell her, that this is the first time he has ever been drunk. He never, ever drinks.
Mila doesn’t believe him, of course.
‘At least you’re not aggressive,’ she says quietly. ‘A lot of men turn nasty when they’re drunk.’
Aron is not aggressive, he promises her that. He is not dangerous. And he will never drink again.
Mila sits by his bed for a while. Gradually, he is able to see her more clearly; she is dark and pretty.
‘What work do you do?’ she asks.
Both Aron and Vlad hesitate. ‘Civil servant,’ they say eventually. ‘What about you?’
‘I’m a nurse.’
After a brief silence, Aron asks, ‘Can I see you again? Do you live here?’
‘My mother lives in Moscow,’ Mila says. ‘I’m staying with her for a week. I work... somewhere else.’
Aron realizes that she works with secrets, just like him.
Mila gets to her feet. ‘I have to go.’
‘I’d really like to see you again.’
Mila looks around the room. ‘You have a telephone.’
‘Yes,’ Aron says. ‘My office needs to be able to get hold of me sometimes.’
Mila smiles. ‘I’ll give you my mother’s number. Give her a call and speak to her, and we’ll see if she’ll allow you to talk to me.’
Lisa
Kent Kloss looked tired; perhaps he had been drinking the night before. But he was sober now, moving animatedly back and forth and making Lisa’s caravan shake.
‘He was close last night. I could hear him creeping around down by the bunker, but he got away... Tonight, you two will be there, too, and we’ll get him.’
We? Lisa thought. Was he including her?