6

Tata could see that something was wrong with her mother. Before, her mother would go off to work for days on end; now, she sat about at home and ate almost nothing. She didn’t even scold Tata if she forgot to wash her plate after meals.

“Would you like some tea, Mommy?” Tata fussed around her mother.

“No thanks.”

“What can I get you?”

“Nothing.”

Her mother turned her face to the wall and told Tata to leave her alone.

Nowadays, they had no money, and Tata had noticed that things kept disappearing from their room. She guessed that her mother was selling them to the used-goods store to buy bread.

As soon as she came home, Tata would feel overwhelmed by melancholy and inertia, so she would stay late at school drawing posters and wall-newspapers even at weekends and on holidays.

Recently, she had read about a young worker who had composed a portrait of Lenin using grains of wheat and oats and had immediately been accepted into the Higher Art and Technical Institute.

Wouldn’t it be grand to do a portrait of Comrade Stalin from some material that had particular significance for society? Tata thought. For instance, she could make a huge picture out of screws and cogwheels and name it “Stalin’s factory.” Look closer, and you would see the workings of a complex mechanism, but from a distance, you would see a portrait of the smiling leader. And imagine if she could get the parts to move!

Tata had even made some sketches for this future masterpiece, but so far, she was having no luck with Comrade Stalin: every picture she drew looked like some iron monster with whiskers.

But Tata would not give up. She had to show everyone, and particularly the children from the boarding school, that she was capable of great feats for the glory of the working classes.

7

When Tata came home, it was already dark. She did not have a key and rang their bell again and again, but her mother did not come to the door.

At last, the door flew open.

“Listen now, just don’t start blubbing, all right?” Mitrofanych muttered as he let Tata into the apartment.

She looked at him bewildered. “Why would I start blubbing?”

“It’s your mother… she swallowed a whole lot of pills. I looked in on her to ask her for some tea and found her lying on the floor.”

“Tea?”

“Do you understand what I’m telling you?” Mitrofanych knocked with his knuckles on his head. “Your mother has tried to poison herself! If I hadn’t run out of tea, I don’t know what would have happened.”

Tata felt as if the walls of the apartment were caving in on her. She ran into their room, but there was nobody there. Only a piece of paper on the table in her mother’s handwriting:

Dearest daughter,

I feel that I am losing my mind, and I do not want to drag you down with me. I have been fired from my job and have no way of supporting you and cannot find work anywhere else.

You have talent, and it will help you make your way in the world. The Soviet state will look after you a lot better than I can. Please forgive me, and may God preserve you.

Love, Mom

“Where’s my mother?” howled Tata.

Natasha came running at the sound of her wails. “She’s been taken to a hospital.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t know. Nobody told us anything.”

Tata slammed the door shut. Without taking off her coat and hat, she fell on her knees before her mother’s icon and began to pray. “Dear God, I was lying when I said I didn’t believe in you. I know you exist. I’ll go to church every day of my life and stop wearing my Pioneer neckerchief. Please just don’t let my mother die!”

Tata fell to the floor and lay there for some time, her arms flung out as if she herself had just been killed.

34. THE LUBYANKA

1

A call came for Alov from the duty room to tell him that Rogov had been arrested.

Struggling with a dreadful migraine, Alov set off downstairs to the building where arrestees were taken.

He was shown a box containing the items confiscated from Rogov on his arrest: his passport, watch, fountain pen, and two train tickets. In his wallet, apart from some loose change, there were two gold ten-ruble coins, thirty German marks, and a separate envelope containing two brand new hundred-dollar bills.

“Where’s your internal telephone?” Alov asked the duty officer.

The officer showed him an ancient wooden apparatus fixed to the wall. Alov picked up the receiver and asked for Diana Mikhailovna.

“Could you write down the numbers of some banknotes for me?” he asked her. “I want you to check them against the numbers of the notes that were stolen from Oscar Reich.”

He hung up and decided to take the pill after all. It was impossible to work with such a headache.

The duty officer took him to the cell where Rogov was being held. The spy hole on the door was low, and Alov had to lean down to look through it.

The small room, painted a dull yellow, was lit up by a light bulb protected by a metal guard. A table and two chairs were in the middle of the room, all bolted to the floor. Rogov’s coat lay on one chair, and Rogov himself, still in his hat, evening dress, and bow tie, was pacing from corner to corner.

There he is, my lucky number, thought Alov. Thanks to him, I’ll get myself a room of my own.

He always found it interesting to see how people reacted when they were arrested unexpectedly. Suddenly, all their plans for the future were changed dramatically, and the landscape of their lives altered. At this point, most people still had no idea why they had been brought in and how serious it was. Some would begin to weep from fear while others would hammer at the door with their fists and demand to see whoever was in charge. Rogov, on the other hand, did not seem particularly frightened. The only emotion visible on his face was that of extreme annoyance.

Alov remembered how Rogov had once refused to cooperate with him. Let’s see what you have to say for yourself now, Alov thought.

He turned to the duty officer. “I want a full search,” he said quietly.

A few minutes later, two heavies—professional boxers—came into the cell.

A full search was the first step in breaking the spirit of a detainee. First, he would be made to undress completely; then the heavies would make a great show of examining the clothes, fingering every crease in the cloth. Then, they would subject the “client” himself to a long, unhurried examination, like a medical, peering and prodding at every inch of his body.

Alov remained glued to the spy hole. Rogov made no move to resist. He merely sneered derisively as if he were above everything that was going on. The heavies confiscated his scarf, cuff links, shoelaces, and suspenders. Then they left him on his own to get dressed.

After leaving Rogov alone for a while so that his panic would escalate, Alov entered the room and sat down sideways on one of the chairs.

“Do you remember how I once asked if you would cooperate with us?” he said. “And how you said you would have nothing to do with us? I was disappointed to hear that.”

“I hope you’re not keeping me in this establishment of yours overnight,” grumbled Rogov. “I have a train to catch tomorrow.”

“Oh, yes, believe me, I understand your concern,” smiled Alov.

“Could you at least tell me what I’m accused of?”

“Of being a spy.”

“If you don’t release me this instant, I can assure you that you’ll be facing an international scandal.”

“And just who do you think will tell your patrons and protectors that Klim Rogov has disappeared? You’ve told everyone you’re leaving, so nobody will be looking for you.”

There was silence.

“You can make things better for yourself,” said Alov, “if you tell us where Nina Kupina is. I know she’s your wife, but as you pimped her to Oscar Reich, I don’t suppose there’s much love lost between you.”

“I refuse to talk to you unless you bring in Mr. Owen. He’ll let my employers know what’s happened, and the matter will be settled at a diplomatic level.”

“Well, as you like. If you don’t want to cooperate, we have other methods.”

Alov got to his feet and put his head outside the door. “Bring Mr. Rogov’s daughter here!”

The prisoner’s face fell at the words. “You have no right to touch the child!”

“The fate of your little Chinese girl depends entirely on you,” said Alov curtly. “We can arrange for her to be sent to a good orphanage, or we can send her to one full of TB sufferers.”

He took a piece of paper and a pencil out of his pocket and put them on the table. “Here. Write out a voluntary confession. I need everything from the beginning: where you were born, what you did before the revolution, when you met Kupina and under what circumstances. I want to know who hired you and who briefed you. Don’t mess with us, or you know what will happen.”

Rogov stared at him, dumbstruck. “You mean torture?”

“What sort of a word is that to use—‘torture’?” Alov said, shaking his head reproachfully. “It’s you in the bourgeois world that torture people and execute them. We use ‘socialist defense measures.’”

2

Alov left feeling extremely pleased with himself now that he had put the fear of God into his “client.” Well, he thought, let him stew for a while in his own juice.

He rang Diana Mikhailovna again. “Did you find out about the numbers?”