to the man’s plight, Grisha sat up attentively.
“It’s difficult, isn’t it?” Grisha suggested sympathetically.
The prisoner looked at his NKVD interrogator and nodded. Although Grisha didn’t think the man would burst into tears—the wide eyes seemed beyond tears—Grisha was concerned that the man might sink within their wet white surface as if into a moist fog.
“I understand,” Grisha said with studied sincerity. “Perhaps I was a little too sudden. I can see that you want to tell the truth, don’t you?”
Dmitri glanced at Grisha and nodded.
“Sometimes it’s not easy. We understand that, but it’s always the best way. It’s the only way. After all, we’re here to help you. Maybe we should get to know one another. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself. Dmitri, where do you work?”
Dmitri’s eyes focused. “At the Lenin Library,” he said.
“That’s a wonderful place to work. A wonderful name, too. Of course, with my activities here, I just don’t have the time to visit it the way I would like to. It’s one of the world’s largest collections, isn’t it?”
The prisoner merely nodded.
“What do you do there?” Grisha asked buoyantly.
“I am in charge of some of the foreign collections,” Dmitri answered.
“What foreign languages do you know?” Grisha inquired.
“Polish, English, French, German—all rather well, and I read several others,” the prisoner answered simply.
“You’re obviously very talented,” Grisha commented respectfully. “Do you enjoy your work, Dmitri?”
Dmitri squirmed uncomfortably in the large leather armchair without being able to formulate an answer.
“You don’t enjoy your work?” Grisha suggested.
“I don’t know.”
“Why not?” Grisha asked politely.
Dmitri looked at Grisha. “Since I’ve had these difficulties, I just don’t know.”
The man put his hand to his forehead in desperation and shook his head. Grisha was sure now that he was about to cry.
“Would you like a drink of water?” he suggested.
The man removed his hand from his head and fell back into the deep upholstered leather chair, gripping the armrests. Grisha picked up the phone and heard the new secretary’s crisp “Yes?”
“May we have a pitcher of water, please?” The voice responded, “Immediately,” and Grisha regretted not having been more imperious in his order. She probably would have respected him more if he hadn’t said please. That’s not the way things used to be.
“Where do you live?”
“In the Arbat. Close to the library,” he answered.
Grisha nodded. “Married?”
The prisoner shook his head. Grisha thought he detected a telltale sign of guilt.
“Have you been married?” he asked casually.
Again Dmitri shook his head with the same telltale signs.
“Engaged?”
A third time the prisoner shook his head. The fact was that this timid Dmitri didn’t look like a ladies’ man, but the Cheka had been fooled often enough on that score. Even after the revolution, sex remained a mystery. Somewhere in Moscow there must be a woman who would thrill to Dmitri Cherbyshev’s wide, frightened eyes and clutch him close. Not that much would happen between them with the man’s debilitating fear, but then, Grisha thought, who knows; there seem to be enough of those frightened furry little lemurs to populate the jungle and the zoos, too.
A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. He buzzed Tatiana in. She entered with a tray containing a large, heavy cut-glass pitcher and two heavy glasses. Grisha had seen them before in this office, but he wondered anew whether they weren’t left from tsarist times. Still, he couldn’t imagine that glassware could survive so long anywhere in Bolshevik Russia, especially in the Lubyanka, where things were destined to be broken. Imperiously he raised his arm and silently pointed to the portion of the desk directly in front of the prisoner. Tatiana primly put the tray down and turned to leave.
Grisha watched her mannish walk, all shoulders and arms, no hips at all. Who would find anything like that attractive? Maya Kirsanova came to mind. She had Bolshevik steel in her heart, but she had hips and human needs, too. If Grisha had had a revolutionary love, she was it. Should he have divorced and married her? There was no great romantic love, but politically Maya was aware, a trusted party member, and there was grace in their relationship. The Cossacks had chided him about it, but with respectful affection. He had envied the natural way they sat on their horses, and they had envied him. They were right, too. He and Maya had “ridden” with a natural physical dignity that made them both proud and grateful to have one another. But this stern, short-haired NKVD secretary— who could ride her with any joy? What would the Cossacks have thought of her? They most probably would have compared her to a mule instead of a graceful, thin-faced mare or a strong, supple Maya Kirsanova.
My heavens, he had let her go! And why was he thinking of her now? Since Kirov had been shot, no one seemed to be screwing in Russia anymore. If they were, the NKVD would know about it, and the NKVD didn’t know about it, so it must not be happening. In the purges one-fourth of Leningrad had disappeared. Who could make love waiting for a knock on the door? Grisha couldn’t; he knew that. So what difference did it make if Chekist women no longer existed? Neither did the Cheka, and neither did sex. Why was he sitting at Svetkov’s desk and in his leather chair with such thoughts and such tense discomfort?
“Dmitri, it’s a little warm in here. Why don’t you have a drink?” Grisha suggested. Welcoming the chance to get up from the chair, he poured the man a glass of water.
Dmitri, relieved at the opportunity to do something with his trembling hand, took it. Grisha watched the water roll about in frenzy as Dmitri’s spasmodic anxiety entered the liquid. A quick darting wave roiled forward and leaped over the rim, running down onto Dmitri’s hand. He leaned forward, licking at his thumbs with the same slow grace that had marked his entry, and then, surprisingly, his hands ceased to shake. He sipped from the glass and rested it on the desk.
“Thank you,” he said with cringing sincerity.
Eager to begin, Grisha returned to Svetkov’s seat.
“Dmitri, take another drink,” he suggested.
Obsequiously, Dmitri obeyed.
“You know we’re here to tell the truth. Sometimes what we have to say is difficult or painful. Sometimes we are ashamed of the things we have done, but there is nothing better for us than the truth. Often we imagine that some things are frightening to tell, but they generally reveal themselves as not half so bad as we imagine. And you’ll feel better for having told the truth, too. I can see that you aren’t very comfortable now. Am I right, Dmitri?”
Dmitri
