One Night in Winter

Once again, the darkness had stepped closer to him. Golden, who had known unbearable torments already, knew that he had to enjoy the proximity of sensual joy while he still could. But actually he needed no excuse. He found himself entangled in delicious flirtations wherever he went, and since even at the best of times he suffered from Jewish fatalism and rampaging hypochondria, always believing death was imminent, he seized every opportunity with boyish enthusiasm.

When he heard the humming of ‘Comrade Stalin, thank you for…’, he turned towards the door. Dr Rimm came in, sat at the table and started to smooth out the crumpled pages of Komsomolsky Pravda. Then he threw it down and said: ‘Comrades and citizens, if I may have your attention. I need to say something.’

Do you? thought Benya Golden. I wish you wouldn’t.

‘In the light of the arrest of our pupil, I propose a vote – a unanimous show of support – for our esteemed director, Comrade Medvedeva, for the way in which she has run the Josef Stalin School 801.’ All the teachers raised their hands in agreement.

As Golden passed Agrippina in the corridor afterwards, he whispered: ‘Unanimous vote of support from Dr Rimm – now we know Director Medvedeva is in trouble.’

And she whispered: ‘Later, Benochka?’

That afternoon: frantic knocking on the door of the Satinovs’ apartment. When Leka the maid answered it, Irina Titorenka almost fell into the lobby and ran straight into the arms of Tamara Satinova. She was crying hysterically and seemed to be trying to get to Hercules Satinov’s study.

Tamara stopped Irina before she could burst through the double glass doors and led her into the kitchen, sitting her at the table and offering her some Georgian delicacies. Like Jewesses, Georgian housewives regard food as the best cure for unhappiness, and the sweetmeats earned Tamara a respite – but not for long.

‘I saw everyone at pick-up,’ Irina sobbed. ‘The children came out. But not mine. Then I’m told by Director Medvedeva: Vlad’s been with the Organs since nine a.m. No one rang me. No one knows where he is, or what he’s done. No one knows anything. What can I do? Comrade Stalin loves children. Comrade Stalin will put things right.’ Shouting now: ‘Tamara, I must ring Comrade Stalin!’

Tamara was sitting next to Irina. ‘Have you called your husband?’

‘Yes, yes, he’s distraught. He’s trying to ring Comrade Beria, anyone, but no one will take his calls. That’s why I came here. Comrade Satinov is my husband’s boss: no one is closer to Comrade Stalin than he is. Comrade Satinov will speak to Comrade Stalin, won’t he? Say he will!’

Tamara chose her words carefully: ‘The Organs only act with good reason, and the good reason in this case is that they are simply investigating the deaths of poor Nikolasha Blagov and Rosa Shako. That’s all. Your boy will tell them what he knows and then they will release him. You must calm down, Irina.’

‘No, no, they’ll beat him. He’s very sensitive and vulnerable. Anyone can see that. He could kill himself. They could kill him.’

‘No, that couldn’t happen.’

‘But they’re capable of anything. We both know this. I must speak to your husband. I know he’s here. He must call Comrade Stalin!’

Tamara took both of Irina’s hands and squeezed them hard. ‘Stay here. Quietly. I will speak to my husband now.’

As she said it, Tamara’s voice almost cracked. Hercules himself had gone to pick up the children that day. He planned to do so every day until the case had blown over. He’d told her that pick-up at the Golden Gates was buzzing with the news of Vlad’s arrest and gossip about Nikolasha’s weird games. But there was nothing particularly sinister about the Organs’ questioning of Vlad, he’d said. The deaths had to be investigated and Vlad was Nikolasha and Rosa’s best friend. There was nothing to worry about.

‘Hercules?’ Tamara said, softly knocking on the door, and coming in.

‘I’m working, Tamara.’

‘Irina Titorenka is here. She’s hysterical. She wants your help to appeal to the… the highest authority.’

Satinov raised his eyes from his papers and shook his head very slightly. ‘Take her for a walk in the yard and give her some advice. Tell her to trust in Soviet justice. That’s all.’

Tamara kissed the top of his head and was hurrying back to the kitchen when she saw George and Marlen peering down the corridor at Irina Titorenka, who was blowing her nose.

‘What’s going on, Mama?’ demanded George.

‘Is that Vlad’s mother?’ asked Marlen.

‘Hush! To your rooms – or your father will have something to say.’ And they were gone.

A few minutes later Tamara led Irina Titorenka downstairs to the yard. Losha Babanava and the other bodyguards were down there smoking. A couple of old people, Molotov’s aunt and Politburo member Andreyev’s father, in shorts and a string vest, were sitting in the sun playing chess. They knew. All of them whispered to each other when they saw the distraught mother.