“Major, why was Chernenko at the border?”
Alexander did not answer. Where was Tatiana? All he wanted to do was ask that question. Without a truck how could they have gotten anywhere? Without a truck what were they doing—walking on foot through the marshes of Karelia?
“Major, your wife is missing. Sayers is gone, Chernenko is dead—” Stepanov hesitated. “And not just dead. But shot dead in a Finn’s uniform. He was wearing a Finnish pilot’s uniform and carrying Finnish ID papers instead of his domestic passport!”
Alexander said nothing. He had nothing to hide except the information that would cost Stepanov his life.
“Alexander!” Stepanov exclaimed in a hissing whisper. “Don’t shut me out. I’m trying to help.”
“Sir,” Alexander said, attempting to mute his fear. “I’m asking you please not to help me anymore.” He wished he had a picture of her. He wanted to touch her white dress with red roses one more time. Wanted to see her young and with him, standing newly married on the steps of the Molotov church.
The fear, the stabbing panic he felt prohibited Alexander from thinking of Tania past. That’s what he would have to learn to do: forbid himself from looking at her even in his memory.
With trembling hands he made a sign of the cross on himself. “I was all right,” he finally managed to say, “until you came here and told me my wife was missing.” He began to shiver uncontrollably.
Stepanov came closer to Alexander. He took off his own coat and gave it to him. “Here, put this around your shoulders.”
Immediately he heard a voice from the outside yell, “It’s time!”
In a whisper, Stepanov said, “Tell me the truth, did you tell your wife to leave with Sayers for Helsinki? Was that your plan all along?”
Alexander said nothing. He didn’t want Stepanov to know—one life, two, three, was enough. The individual was a million people divided by one million; Stepanov did not deserve to die because of Alexander.
“Why are you being so stubborn? Stop it! Having gotten nowhere, they’re bringing in a new man to question you. Apparently the toughest interrogator they have. He has never failed to get a signed confession. They’ve kept you here nearly naked in a cold cell, and soon they’ll come up with something else to break you; they’ll beat you, they’ll put your feet in cold water, they’ll shine a light in your face until you go mad, the interrogator will deliberately tell you things you will want to kill him for, and you need to be strong for all that. Otherwise you have no chance.”
Alexander said faintly, “Do you think she is safe?”
“No, I don’t think she is safe! Who is safe around here, Alexander?” Stepanov whispered. “You? Me? Certainly not her. They’re looking everywhere for her. In Leningrad, in Molotov, in Lazarevo. If she is in Helsinki, they’ll find out, you know that, don’t you? They’ll bring her back. They were calling the Red Cross hospital in Helsinki this morning.”
“It’s time!” someone yelled again.
“How many times in my life will I have to hear those words?” Alexander said. “I heard them for my mother, I heard them for my father, I heard them for my wife, and now I hear them for me.”
Stepanov took his coat. “The things they accuse you of—”
“Don’t ask me, sir.”
“Deny them, Alexander.”
As Stepanov turned to go, Alexander said, “Sir …” He was so weak he almost couldn’t get the words out. He didn’t care how cold the wall was, he could not stand on his own anymore. He pressed his body against the icy concrete and then sank down to the floor. “Did you see her?”
He lifted his gaze to Stepanov, who nodded.
“How was she?”
“Don’t ask, Alexander.”
“Was she—”
“Don’t ask.”
“Tell me.”
“Do you remember when you brought my son back to me?” Stepanov asked, trying to keep his voice from breaking. “Because of you I had comfort. I was able to see him before he died, I was able to bury him.”
“All right, no more,” said Alexander.
“Who was going to give that comfort to your wife?”
Alexander put his face into his hands.
Stepanov left.
Alexander sat motionlessly on the floor. He didn’t need morphine, he didn’t need drugs, he didn’t need phenobarbital. He needed a bullet in his fucking chest.
The door opened. Alexander had not been given any bread or water, or any clothes. He had no idea how long he had been left undressed in the cold cell.
A man came in who apparently did not want to stand. Behind him a guard brought in a chair and the tall, bald, unpleasant-faced man sat down and in a pleasant-sounding nasal voice said, “Do you know what I’m holding in my hands, Major?”
Alexander shook his head. There was a kerosene lamp between them.
“I’m holding all your clothes, Major. All your clothes and a wool blanket. And look, I’ve got a nice piece of pork for you, on the bone. It’s still warm. Some potatoes too, with sour cream and butter. A shot of vodka. And a nice long smoke. You can leave this damn cold place, have some food, get dressed. How would you like that?”
“I would like that,” Alexander said impassively. His voice wasn’t going to tremble for a stranger.
The man smiled. “I thought you would. I came all the way from Leningrad to talk to you. Do you think we could talk for a bit?”
“I don’t see why not,” Alexander replied. “I don’t have much else to do.”
The man laughed. “No, that’s right. Not much at all.” His non-laughing eyes studied Alexander intently.
“What do you want to talk about?”
“You, mostly, Major Belov. A couple of other things.”
“That’s fine.”
“Would you like your clothes?”
“I’m sure,” Alexander said, “that to a smart man like yourself, the answer is obvious.”
“I have another cell for you to go to. It’s warmer, bigger and has a window. Much warmer. It must be twenty-five degrees Celsius in there right now, not like this one, it’s probably no more than five Celsius in here.” The man smiled again. “Or would you like me to translate that into Fahrenheit for you, Major?”
Fahrenheit? Alexander narrowed his eyes. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Did I mention tobacco?”
“You mentioned it.”
“All these things, Major—comfort things. Would you like any of them?”
“Didn’t I answer that question?”
“You answered that question. I have one more for you.”
“Yes?”
“Are you Alexander Barrington, the son of Harold Barrington, a man who came here in December of 1930, with a beautiful wife and a good-looking eleven-year-old son?”
Alexander didn’t blink as he stood in front of the sitting interrogator. “What is your name?” he asked. “Usually you people introduce yourselves.”
“Us