The Secret Speech ld-2 Page 2

  She understood. He wouldn’t lie. He wouldn’t compromise his principles, not for her, not for anyone. Principles were more important than their lives. He shouldn’t have attended the demolition: she’d warned him it was an unnecessary risk. The crowd was inevitably going to be monitored and he’d be a conspicuous observer. He’d ignored her, as was his way, always appearing to contemplate her advice but never heeding it. Hadn’t she pleaded with him not to alienate the ecclesiastical authorities? Were they in such a position of strength that they could afford to make enemies of both the State and the Church? But he had no interest in the politics of alliance: he only wanted to speak his mind even if it left him isolated, openly criticizing the new relationship between bishops and politicians. Stubborn, headstrong, he demanded that she support his stance while giving her no say in it. She admired him, a man of integrity. But he did not admire her. She was younger than him and had only been twenty years old when they’d married. He’d been thirty-five. At times she wondered whether he’d married her because being a White Priest, a married priest, taking a monastic vow, was itself a reformist statement. The concept appealed to him, fitting with his liberal, philosophical scheme. She’d always been braced for the moment when the State might cut across their lives. However, now that the moment had come, she felt cheated. She was paying for his opinions, opinions that she’d never been allowed to influence or contribute to.

  Lazar put a hand on Maxim’s shoulder:

  — It would be better if you returned to the theological seminar and denounced us. Since we’re going to be arrested the denunciation would only serve to distance you from us. Maxim, you’re a young man. No one will think worse of you for leaving.

  Coming from Lazar, the offer to run was a loaded proposition. Lazar considered such pragmatic behavior beneath him, suitable for others, weaker men and women. His moral superiority was stifling. Far from offering Maxim a way out, it trapped him.

  Anisya interjected, trying to keep her voice friendly:

  — Maxim, you must go.

  He reacted sharply:

  — I want to stay.

  Slighted by her earlier laugh, he was stubborn and indignant. Speaking in a double meaning invisible to her husband, she said:

  — Please Maxim, forget everything that has happened, you will achieve nothing by staying.

  Maxim shook his head:

  — I’ve made my decision.

  Anisya noticed Lazar smile. There was no doubt her husband was fond of Maxim. He’d taken him under his wing, blind to his protégé’s infatuation with her, alert only to the deficiencies in his knowledge of scripture and philosophy. He was pleased with Maxim’s decision to stay, believing that it had something to do with him. Anisya moved closer to Lazar:

  — We cannot allow him risk to his life.

  — We cannot force him to leave.

  — Lazar, this is not his fight.

  It was not her fight either.

  — He has made it his. I respect that. You must too.

  — It is senseless!

  In modeling Maxim on himself, the martyr, her husband had chosen to humiliate her and condemn him. Lazar exclaimed:

  — Enough! We don’t have time! You wish him to be safe. I do too. But if Maxim wants to stay, he stays.

  * * *

  LAZAR HURRIED TOWARD THE STONE ALTAR, hastily stripping it bare. Every person connected to his church was in danger. He could do little for his wife or Maxim: they were too closely connected to him. But his congregation, the people who’d confided in him, shared their fears — it was essential their names remain a secret.

  With the altar bare, Lazar gripped the side:

  — Push!

  None the wiser but obedient, Maxim pushed the altar, straining at the weight. The rough stone base scratched across the stone floor, slowly sliding aside and revealing a hole, a hiding place created some twenty years ago during the most intensive attacks on the church. The stone slabs had been removed, exposing earth that had been carefully dug and lined with timber supports to stop it subsiding, creating a space one meter deep, two meters wide. It contained a steel trunk. Lazar reached down and Maxim followed suit, taking the opposite end of the trunk and lifting it out, placing it on the floor, ready to be opened.

  Anisya lifted the lid. Maxim crouched beside her, unable to keep the amazement out of his voice:

  — Music?

  The trunk was filled with handwritten musical scores. Lazar explained:

  — The composer attended services here, a young man — not much older than you, a student at the Moscow Conservatory. He came to us one night, terrified that he was about to be arrested. Fearing that his work would be destroyed, he entrusted us with his compositions. Much of his work had been condemned as anti-Soviet.

  — Why?

  — I don’t know. He didn’t know either. He had nowhere to turn, no family or friends he could trust. So he came to us. We agreed to take possession of his life’s work. Shortly afterward, he disappeared.

  Maxim glanced over the notes:

  — The music… is it good?

  — We haven’t heard it performed. We dare not show it to anyone, or have it played for us. Questions might be asked.

  — You have no idea what it sounds like?

  — I can’t read music. Neither can my wife. But Maxim, you’re missing the point. My promise of help wasn’t dependent on the merits of his work.

  — You’re risking your lives? If it’s worthless…

  Lazar corrected him:

  — We’re not protecting these papers; we’re protecting their right to survive.

  Anisya found her husband’s assuredness infuriating. The young composer in question had come to her, not him. She’d then petitioned Lazar and convinced him to take the music. In the retelling of the story he’d smoothed over his doubts, anxieties — reducing her to nothing more than his passive supporter. She wondered if he was even aware of the adjustments he’d made to the history, automatically elevating his own importance, recentering the story around him.

  Lazar picked up the entire collection of unbound sheet music, maybe two hundred pages in total. Included among the music were documents relating to the business of the church and several original icons that had been hidden, replaced with reproductions. He hastily divided the contents into three piles, checking as best he could that complete musical compositions were kept together. The plan was to each smuggle out a more or less equal share. Divided in three, there was a reasonable chance some of the music would survive. The difficulty was finding three separate hiding places, three people who’d be prepared to sacrifice their lives for notes on a page even though they’d never met the composer or heard his music. Lazar knew many in his parish would help. Many were also likely to be under suspicion of some kind. For this task they needed the help of a perfect Soviet, someone whose apartment would never be searched. Such a person, if they existed, would never help them.

  Anisya threw out suggestions:

  — Martemian Syrtsov.

  — Too talkative.

  — Artiom Nakhaev.

  — He’d agree, take the papers and then panic, lose his nerve, and burn them.

  — Niura Dmitrieva.

  — She’d say yes but she’d hate us for asking. She wouldn’t sleep. She wouldn’t eat.

  In the end, two names — that’s all they could agree upon. Lazar decided to keep one portion of the music hidden in the church, along with the larger icons, returning them to the trunk and pushing the altar back into position. Since Lazar was the most likely to be followed, Anisya and Maxim were to carry their share of the music to the two addresses. They would leave separately. Anisya was ready:

  — I’ll go first.

  Maxim shook his head:

  — No. I will.

  She guessed his reason for offering: if Maxim got away then the chances were that she would too.

  They unlocked the main door, lifting up the thick timber beam. Anisya sensed Maxim hesitate, no doubt af
raid, the danger of his predicament finally sinking in. Lazar shook his hand. Over her husband’s shoulder, Maxim looked at her. Once Lazar was done, Maxim stepped toward her. She gave him a hug and watched him set off into the night.

  Lazar closed the door, locking it behind him, reiterating the plan:

  — We wait ten minutes.

  Alone with her husband, she stood near the front of the church. He joined her. To her surprise, rather than praying, he took hold of her hand.

  * * *

  TEN MINUTES HAD PASSED, they moved to the door. Lazar lifted the beam. The papers were in a bag, slung over her shoulder. Anisya stepped outside. They’d already said good-bye. She turned, watching in silence as Lazar shut the door behind her. She heard the beam lowered back in place. Walking toward the street, she checked for faces at the windows, movement in the shadows. Suddenly a hand gripped her wrist. Startled, she spun around.

  — Maxim?

  What was he doing here? Where was the music he was carrying? From behind the back of the church a voice called out, harsh and impatient:

  — Leo?

  Anisya saw a man dressed in a dark uniform — an MGB agent. There were more men behind him, clustering like cockroaches. Her questions melted away, concentrating on the name called out: Leo. With the tug of a single word the knot of lies unraveled. That was why he had no friends or family in the city, that was why he was so quiet in lessons with Lazar, he knew nothing of scripture or philosophy. That was why he’d wanted to leave the church first, not for her protection but to alert the surveillance, to prepare for their arrest. He was a Chekist, a secret police officer. He’d tricked her and her husband. He’d infiltrated their lives in order to gather as much information as possible, not just on them but on the people who sympathized with them, dealing a blow against the remaining pockets of resistance within the Church. Had attempting to seduce her been an objective handed down by his superiors? Had they identified her as weak, gullible and instructed this handsome officer to form a persona—Maxim—to manipulate her?

  He spoke quietly, intimately, as though nothing had changed between them:

  — Anisya, I give you one more chance. Come with me. I’ve made arrangements. They’re not interested in you. They’re after Lazar.

  The sound of his voice, tender and concerned, was appalling. The offer he’d made earlier, to leave with him, hadn’t been a naïve fantasy. It hadn’t been romantic. It had been the calculations of an agent. He continued:

  — Take the advice you gave me, denounce Lazar. I can lie for you. I can protect you. It’s him they want. You will achieve nothing by remaining loyal.

  * * *

  LEO WAS RUNNING OUT OF TIME. Anisya had to understand that he was her only chance of survival, no matter what she thought of him. She would gain nothing by clinging to her principles. His superior officer Nikolai Borisov walked toward them. Forty years old, he had the body of an aging weight lifter, still strong but slackening with an excess of drink:

  — Is she cooperating?

  Leo stretched out his hand, his eyes pleading with her to hand him the bag.

  — Please?

  In reply she cried out as loud as she could:

  — Lazar!

  Nikolai stepped forward, slapping her with the back of his hand. He called out to his men:

  — Go!

  Axes were brought against the church door.

  Leo saw hatred in Anisya’s face. Nikolai pulled the bag from her.

  — He tried to save you, ungrateful bitch.

  She leaned forward, whispering into Leo’s ear:

  — You genuinely believed that I might end up loving you? Didn’t you?

  Officers grabbed her arms. Pulled back, she smiled at him, a vicious smile:

  — No one will ever love you. No one!

  Leo turned his back on her, desperate for her to be taken away. Nikolai put a consoling hand on his shoulder:

  — It would’ve been complicated explaining how she wasn’t a traitor anyway. It’s much better this way. Better for you. There are other women, Leo. There are always others.

  Leo had completed his first arrest.

  Anisya was wrong. He was already loved — by the State. He didn’t want the love of a traitor: that was no love at all. Deception, betrayal— these were an officer’s tools. He had a legitimate right to them. His country depended upon betrayal. A soldier before he became an MGB agent, he’d experienced savage necessity in the defeat of fascism. Even the most terrible of things could be excused by the greater good that they served.

  He entered the church. Instead of attempting escape Lazar was kneeling near the altar, praying, awaiting his fate. Seeing Leo his proud defiance melted away. In that moment of understanding he seemed to age several years:

  — Maxim?

  For the first time since they’d known each other he looked to his protégé for answers.

  — My name is Leo Stepanovich Demidov.

  For several seconds Lazar remained silent. Finally he said:

  — You were recommended to me by the patriarch…

  — Patriarch Krasikov is a good citizen.

  Lazar shook his head, refusing to believe it. The patriarch was an informer. His protégé was a spy sent to him by the highest religious figure. He’d been sacrificed to the State just as the Church of Sancta Sophia had been sacrificed. He was a fool, warning others to take care, preaching caution when standing beside him, taking notes, was an MGB officer.

  Nikolai stepped forward:

  — Where are the remaining papers?

  Leo gestured at the altar:

  — Underneath.

  Three agents pushed it aside, revealing the trunk. Nikolai asked:

  — Did he give you any other names?

  Leo answered:

  — Martemian Syrtsov. Artiom Nakhaev. Niura Dmitrieva. Moisei Semashko.

  He caught sight of Lazar’s face: shock turned to disgust. Leo stepped up to him:

  — Keep your eyes on the floor!

  Lazar didn’t turn away. Leo pushed his face down:

  — Eyes on the floor!

  Lazar lifted his head again. This time Leo punched him. Slowly, with his lip split open, Lazar lifted his head, dripping blood, looking up at him, disgust mingled with defiance. Leo replied, as if Lazar’s eyes had asked him a question:

  — I am a good man.

  Holding his mentor by the hair, Leo didn’t stop, punch after punch, continuing mechanically like a wind-up toy soldier, repeating the same action over and over until his knuckles hurt, until his arms ached and the side of Lazar’s face turned soft. When he finally stopped and released him, Lazar slumped to the floor, blood pooling around his mouth, shaped like a speech bubble.

  Nikolai hung an arm around Leo’s shoulder, watching as Lazar was carried out, leaving a trail of blood from the altar to the door. Nikolai lit a cigarette.

  — The State needs people like us.

  Numb, Leo wiped the blood on his trousers, remarking:

  — Before we go I’d like a moment to check the church.

  Nikolai accepted the proposal at face value.

  — A perfectionist, that’s good. But hurry up. Tonight we get drunk. You haven’t had a drink in two months! You’ve been living like a monk!

  Nikolai laughed at his own joke, patting Leo on the back before heading out. Alone, Leo walked to the displaced stone altar, staring into the hole. Caught between the side of the trunk and the earth wall there was a single sheet of paper. He reached down, picking it up. It was a page of music. His eyes ran across the notes. Deciding that it would be better not to know what had been lost, he raised the sheet above the flame of a nearby candle, watching the paper turn black.

  SEVEN YEARS LATER

  MOSCOW

  12 MARCH 1956

  MANAGER OF A SMALL ACADEMIC PRINTING PRESS, Suren Moskvin had become renowned for producing textbooks of the poorest quality, using ink that smeared and the thinnest paper, all held together with a glue spine that beg
an to shed pages within hours of opening. It wasn’t that he was lazy or incompetent. Far from it, he’d start work early in the morning and finish late at night. The reason the books were so shabby was due to the raw materials allotted by the State. While the content of academic publications was carefully monitored, they were not a resource priority. Locked into a quota system, Suren was forced to produce a large number of books from the lowest grade of paper in the shortest period of time. The equation never changed and he was at its mercy, acutely embarrassed that his reputation had sunk so low. There were jokes — with ink-stained fingers, students and teachers quipped that Moskvin’s books always stayed with you. Ridiculed, he’d been finding it difficult getting out of bed. He wasn’t eating properly. He was drinking throughout the day, bottles stashed in drawers, behind bookshelves. Aged fifty-five, he’d discovered something new about himself: he didn’t have the stomach for public humiliation.

  Inspecting the Linotype printing machines, brooding over his failures, he noticed a young man standing at the door. Suren addressed him defensively:

  — Yes? What is it? It’s not normal to stand there unannounced.

  The man stepped forward, in typical student attire, a long coat and a cheap black scarf. He was holding a book, outstretched. Suren snatched it from his hands, bracing himself for more complaints. He glanced at the cover: Lenin’s The State and Revolution. They’d printed a new volume only last week, distributed a day or so ago, and this man, it would seem, was the first to spot something amiss. A mistake in a seminal work was a grave matter: during Stalin’s rule it would be enough to warrant arrest. The student leaned forward and opened the book, flicking to the front. Printed on the title page was a black-and-white photo. The student commented:

  — The text at the bottom says it’s a photo of Lenin but… as you can see…

  The photo was of a man who looked nothing like Lenin, a man standing against a wall, a stark white wall. His hair was wild. His eyes were wild.

  Suren slammed the book shut and turned to the student:

  — You think I could have printed one thousand copies of this book with the wrong photo! Who are you! What is your name! Why are you doing this? My problems are due to the limits of my materials, not carelessness!