-I refused to give them you.

-They weren't after me. They were after you. Arresting strangers, you were able to fool yourself that they might just be guilty. You could believe that what you were doing served some purpose. But that wasn't enough for them. They wanted you to prove that you'd do whatever they asked even if you knew it in your heart to be wrong, even if you knew it to be meaningless. They wanted you to prove your blind obedience. I imagine wives are a useful test for that.

-Maybe you're right, but we're free of that now. Do you understand how lucky we are to even get this second chance? I want us to start a new life, as a family.

-Leo, it's not as simple as that.

Raisa paused, studying her husband carefully, as though they were meeting for the first time.

-The night we ate dinner at your parents' apartment I heard you talking through the front door. I was in the hallway. I heard the discussion about whether or not you should denounce me as a spy. I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to die. So I went back down to the street and walked for a while, trying to collect my thoughts. I wonderedwill he do it? Will he give me up? Your father made a convincing case.

-My father was scared.

-Three lives weighed against one? It's hard to argue with those numbers. But what about three lives against two?

-You're not pregnant?

-Would you have vouched for me if I wasn't?

-And you waited until now before telling me?

-I was afraid you might change your mind.

This was their relationship: stripped bare. Leo felt unsteady. The train he was standing on, the people near him, the cases, his clothes, the city outsidenone of it felt right now. He could trust none of it, not even the things he could see and touch and feel. Everything he'd believed in was a lie.

-Raisa, have you ever loved me?

A moment pa.s.sed in silence, the question lingering like a bad smell, the two of them rocking with the motion of the train. Finally, instead of answering, Raisa knelt down and tied her shoelace.

Voualsk 15 March Varlam Babinich was sitting cross-legged on a filthy concrete floor in the corner of an overcrowded dormitory, his back to the door, using his body to shield from view the objects arranged in front of him. He didn't want the other boys to interfere as they had a tendency to if something caught their interest. He glanced around. The thirty or so boys in the room weren't paying him any attention; most of them lay side by side on the eight p.i.s.s-sodden beds they were forced to share. He watched two of them scratching the bug bites swelling up across each other's backs. Satisfied that he wasn't going to be pestered, he returned to the objects arranged in front of him, objects he'd collected over the years, all of them precious to him, including his most recent addition, stolen this morninga four-month-old baby.

Varlam was dimly aware that by taking the baby he'd done something wrong and that if he was caught he'd be in trouble, more trouble than he'd ever been in before. He was also aware that the baby wasn't happy. It was crying. He wasn't particularly worried about the noise since no one was going to notice another screaming child. As it happened he was less interested in the baby itself than in the yellow blanket it was wrapped in. Proud of his new possession, he positioned the baby at the centrepiece of his collection, among a yellow tin, an old yellow shirt, a yellow-painted brick, a ripped portion of a poster with a yellow background, a yellow pencil and a book with a soft yellow paper cover. In the summer he added to this collection wild yellow flowers, which he picked from the forest. The flowers never lasted long and nothing made him sadder than watching their shades of yellow fade, the petals becoming lank and brown. He used to wonder:

Where does the yellow go?

He had no idea. But he hoped he'd go there too some day, maybe when he died. The colour yellow was more important to him than anything or anybody. Yellow was the reason he'd ended up here, in Voualsk's internat internat, a State-run facility for children with mental deficiencies.

As a small boy he'd chased after the sun, certain that if he ran far enough he'd eventually catch up with it, s.n.a.t.c.h it from the sky and carry it home. He'd run for almost five hours before being caught and brought back, screaming in anger at his quest being cut short. His parents, who'd beaten him in the hope that it would straighten out his peculiarities, finally accepted that their methods weren't working and handed him over to the State, which had adopted more or less the same methods. For his first two years in the internat internat he'd been chained to a bed frame, like a farm dog chained to a tree. However, he was a strong child, with broad shoulders and a stubborn determination. Over several months he'd managed to break the bed frame, pulling the chain loose and escaping. He'd ended up on the edge of town, chasing a yellow carriage of a moving train. Eventually he'd been returned to the he'd been chained to a bed frame, like a farm dog chained to a tree. However, he was a strong child, with broad shoulders and a stubborn determination. Over several months he'd managed to break the bed frame, pulling the chain loose and escaping. He'd ended up on the edge of town, chasing a yellow carriage of a moving train. Eventually he'd been returned to the internat internat suffering from exhaustion and dehydration. This time he'd been locked in a cupboard. But all that was a long time agothe staff trusted him now he was seventeen years old and smart enough to understand that he couldn't run far enough to reach the sun or indeed climb high enough to pick it out of the sky. Instead, he concentrated on finding yellow closer to home, such as this baby, which he'd stolen by reaching in through an open window. If he hadn't been in such a hurry he might have tried to unwrap the blanket and leave the baby behind. But he'd panicked, afraid that he was going to get caught, and so he'd taken them both. Now, staring down at the screaming infant he noticed that the blanket made the baby's skin appear faintly yellow. And he was glad that he'd stolen them both after all. suffering from exhaustion and dehydration. This time he'd been locked in a cupboard. But all that was a long time agothe staff trusted him now he was seventeen years old and smart enough to understand that he couldn't run far enough to reach the sun or indeed climb high enough to pick it out of the sky. Instead, he concentrated on finding yellow closer to home, such as this baby, which he'd stolen by reaching in through an open window. If he hadn't been in such a hurry he might have tried to unwrap the blanket and leave the baby behind. But he'd panicked, afraid that he was going to get caught, and so he'd taken them both. Now, staring down at the screaming infant he noticed that the blanket made the baby's skin appear faintly yellow. And he was glad that he'd stolen them both after all.

Outside two cars pulled up and six armed members of the Voualsk militia stepped out, led by General Nesterov, a middle-aged man with the broad, stocky build of a kolkhoz kolkhoz labourer. He gestured for his team to surround the premises while he and his deputy, a lieutenant, approached the entrance. Although the militia were not normally armed, today Nesterov had instructed his men to carry guns. They were to shoot to kill. labourer. He gestured for his team to surround the premises while he and his deputy, a lieutenant, approached the entrance. Although the militia were not normally armed, today Nesterov had instructed his men to carry guns. They were to shoot to kill.

The administrative office was open: a radio playing on a low volume, a game of cards abandoned on the table, a reek of alcohol hanging in the air. There were no members of staff to be seen. Nesterov and his lieutenant moved forward, entering a corridor. The smell of alcohol gave way to the smell of faeces and sulphur. Sulphur was used to keep away bed bugs. The smell of faeces needed no explanation. There was s.h.i.t on the floor and on the walls. The dormitories they pa.s.sed were overrun with young children, maybe forty to a room, wearing nothing more than a dirty shirt or a pair of dirty shorts but never, it seemed, both. They were sprawled on their beds, three or four layered across a thin, filthy mattress. Many weren't movingstaring up at the ceiling. Nesterov wondered if some of them were dead. It was difficult to tell. The children on their feet ran forward, trying to grab the guns, touching their uniforms, starved of adult interaction. The men were quickly encircled by clambering hands. Even though Nesterov had braced himself for terrible conditions he found it difficult to comprehend how things could have got this bad. He intended to bring it up with the director of the establishment. However, that was for another time.

Having searched the ground floor, Nesterov made his way upstairs while his lieutenant tried to keep the pack of children from following, communicating with stern looks and gestures which only caused them to laugh as though this were a game. When he gently pushed the children back they immediately rushed forward, wanting to be pushed back again. Impatient, Nesterov remarked: -Leave them, let them be.

They had no choice but to allow them to trail behind.

The children in the rooms upstairs were older. Nesterov guessed that the dormitories were loosely arranged according to age. Their suspect was seventeen years oldthe age limit at this inst.i.tution, after which they were sent out into the most back-breaking, unappealing jobs available, jobs no sane man or woman would want, jobs where the life expectancy was thirty years. They were coming to the end of the corridor. There was only one dormitory left to search.

With his back to the door, Varlam was preoccupied with stroking the baby's blanket, wondering why the child wasn't crying any more. He prodded it with a dirty finger. Suddenly a voice cut across the room, causing his back to stiffen.

-Varlam: stand up and turn around, very slowly.

Varlam held his breath and closed his eyes as though this might make the voice disappear. It didn't work.

-I'm not going to tell you again. Stand up and turn around.

Nesterov stepped forward, approaching Varlam's position. He couldn't see what the boy was sheltering. He couldn't hear the sound of a baby crying. All the other boys in the dormitory were sitting upright, staring, fascinated. Without warning Varlam sprang to life, scooping something up in his arms, standing and turning round. He was holding the baby. It started crying. Nesterov was relieved: the child was alive at least. But not out of danger. Varlam was holding it tight against his chest, his arms wrapped around the baby's fragile neck.

Nesterov checked behind him. His deputy had remained by the door with the other curious children cl.u.s.tered around. He took aim at Varlam's head, c.o.c.king his gun, ready to kill, waiting for the order. He had a clear line. But at best he was an average shot. At the sight of his gun some of the children began screaming, others laughing and banging the mattresses. The situation was getting out of control. Varlam was beginning to panic. Nesterov holstered his weapon, raising his hands in an attempt to pacify Varlam, speaking over the din.

-Give me the child.

-I'm in so much trouble.

-No, you're not. I can see the baby's OK. I'm pleased with you. You've done a good job. You've looked after him. I'm here to congratulate you.

-I did a good job?

-Yes, you did.

-Can I keep it?

-I need to check that the baby's OK, just to be sure. Then we'll talk. Can I check on the child?

Varlam knew they were angry and they were going to take the baby from him and lock him in a yellow-less room. He pulled the baby closer, tighter, squeezing it so that the yellow blanket pressed up against his mouth. He stepped back towards the window, looking out at the militia cars parked in the street and the armed men surrounding the building.

-I'm in so much trouble.

Nesterov edged forward. There was no way he could extricate the baby from Varlam's grip by forceit could be crushed in the struggle. He glanced at his lieutenant who nodded, indicating that he'd lined up a shot: he was ready. Nesterov shook his head. The baby was too close to Varlam's face. The risk of an accident was too great. There had to be another way.

-Varlam, no one is going to hit you or hurt you. Give me the child and we'll talk. No one will be angry. You have my word. I promise.

Nesterov took another step closer, blocking his lieutenant's shot. Nesterov glanced down at the collection of yellow items on the floor. He'd encountered Varlam in a previous incident, when a yellow dress had been stolen from a clothes line. It had not slipped his attention that the baby was wrapped in a yellow blanket.

-If you give me the child, I'll ask the mother if you can have the yellow blanket. I'm sure she'll say yes. All I want is the baby.

Hearing what seemed like a fair deal, Varlam relaxed. He stretched out his arms, offering the child. Nesterov sprang forward, s.n.a.t.c.hing the child from his hands. He checked that the child seemed to be unharmed before pa.s.sing it to his deputy.

-Take it to the hospital.

The lieutenant hurried out.

As though nothing had happened, Varlam sat down with his back to the door, rearranging the items in his collection to fill the s.p.a.ce created by the absent baby. The other children in the dormitory were quiet again. Nesterov knelt down beside him. Varlam asked: -When can I have the blanket?

-You have to come with me first.

Varlam continued rearranging his collection. Nesterov glanced at the yellow book. It was a military manual, a confidential doc.u.ment.

-How did you get that?

-I found it.

-I'm going to have a look. Will you stay calm if I have a look?

-Are your fingers clean?

Nesterov noticed that Varlam's fingers were filthy.

-My fingers are clean.

Nesterov picked it up, casually flicking through. There was something in the middle, pressed between the pages. He turned the book upside down and shook it. A thick lock of blonde hair fell to the floor. He picked it up, rubbing it between his fingers. Varlam blushed.

-I'm in so much trouble.

Eight Hundred Kilometres East of Moscow 16 March Asked whether or not she loved him, Raisa had refused to answer. She'd just admitted to lying about being pregnant so even if she'd saidYes, I love you, I've always loved youLeo wouldn't have believed her. She certainly wasn't about to stare into his eyes and spell out some fanciful description. What was the point of the question anyway? It was as though he'd had some kind of epiphany, a revelation that their marriage wasn't built on love and affection. If she'd answered truthfullyNo, I've never loved youall of a sudden he would've been the victim, the implication being that their marriage had been a trick played on him by her. She was the con-artist who'd toyed with his gullible heart. Out of nowhere, he was a romantic. Perhaps it was the shock of losing his job. But since when had love been part of the arrangement? He'd never asked her about it before. He'd never said:

I love you.

She hadn't expected him to. He'd asked her to marry him, true. She'd said yes. He'd wanted a marriage, he'd wanted a wife, he'd wanted her and he'd got what he wanted. Now that wasn't enough. Having lost his authority, having lost the power to arrest whoever he wanted, he was choked with sentimentalism. And why was it her pragmatic deceit, rather than his profound mistrust, that had brought this illusion of marital contentment crashing down around them? Why couldn't she demand that he had to convince her of his love? After all, he'd presumed incorrectly that she'd been unfaithful, he'd set up an entire surveillance team, a process which could easily have resulted in her arrest. He'd broken trust between them long before she'd been forced to. Her motivation for doing so had been survival. His had been a pathetic male anxiety.

Ever since they'd entered their names as man and wife into the ledger, even before that, ever since they started seeing each other, she'd been conscious that if she displeased him he could have her killed. It had become a blunt reality of her life. She had to keep him happy. When Zoya had been arrested, the very sight of himhis uniform, his talk about the Statemade her so angry she found it impossible to utter more than a couple of words to him. In the end the question was very simple. Did she want to live? She was a survivor and the fact of her survival, the fact that she was the only remaining member of her family, defined her. Indignation at Zoya's arrest was a luxury. It achieved nothing. And so she'd got into his bed and slept beside him, slept with him. She'd cooked him dinnerhating the sound of him eating. She'd washed his clotheshating his smell.

For the past few weeks she'd sat idle in their apartment, knowing full well he'd been weighing up whether he'd made the right decision. Should he have spared her life? Was she worth the risk? Was she pretty enough, nice enough, good enough? Unless every gesture and glance pleased him she'd be in mortal danger. Well, that time was over. She was sick of the powerlessness, the dependency upon his good will. Yet now he seemed to be under the impression that she was in his debt. He'd stated the obvious: she wasn't an international spy, she was a secondary-school teacher. In repayment he wanted a declaration of her love. It was insulting. He was no longer in a position to demand anything. He had no leverage over her just as she had none over him. They were both in the same dire straits: their life's possessions reduced to one suitcase each, exiled to some far-flung town. They were equals as they had never been equal before. If he wanted to hear about love, the first verse was his to sing.

Leo brooded over Raisa's remarks. It seemed that she'd granted herself the right to judge him, to hold him in contempt while pretending that her hands were clean. But she'd married him knowing what he did for a living, she'd enjoyed the perks of his position, she'd eaten the rare foods he'd been able to bring home, she'd bought clothes from the well-stocked spetztorgi spetztorgi, stores restricted to state officials. If she was so appalled by his work, why hadn't she rejected his advances? Everyone understood that it was necessary, in order to survive, to compromise. He'd done things that were distastefulmorally objectionable. A clear conscience was, for most people, an impossible luxury and one Raisa could hardly lay claim to. Had she taught her cla.s.ses according to her genuine beliefs? Evidently not, considering her indignation at the State Security apparatusbut at school she must have expressed her support for it, explained to her students how their State operated, applauded it, indoctrinated them to agree with it and even encouraged them to denounce one another. If she hadn't she would've almost certainly been denounced by one of her own students. Her job was not only to toe the line but to shut down her pupils' questioning faculties. And it would be her job to do it again in their new town. As far Leo was concerned, he and his wife were spokes in the same wheel.

The train stopped at Mutava for an hour. Raisa broke the day-long silence between them.

-We should eat something.

By which she meant that they should stick to practical arrangements: it had been the foundation for their relationship this far. Surviving whatever challenges they had coming, that was the glue between them, not love. They got out of the carriage. A woman was pacing the platform with a wicker basket. They bought hardboiled eggs, a paper pouch of salt, chunks of tough rye bread. Sitting side by side on a bench they peeled their eggs, collecting the sh.e.l.l in their laps, sharing the salt and saying nothing at all to each other.

The train's speed dropped as it climbed towards the mountains, pa.s.sing through black pine forests. In the distance, over the tree tops, the mountains could be seen jutting upwards like the uneven teeth in a bottom jaw.

The tracks opened out into a clearingsprawled before them was a vast a.s.sembly plant, tall chimneys, interconnected warehouse-like buildings suddenly appearing in the middle of a wilderness. It was as though G.o.d had sat on the Ural Mountains, smashed his fist down on the landscape before him, sending trees flying, and demanded that this newly created s.p.a.ce be filled with chimneys and steel presses. This was the first glimpse of their new home.

Leo's knowledge of this town came from propaganda and paperwork. Previously little more than timber mills and a collection of timber huts for the people who worked in them, the once modest settlement of twenty thousand inhabitants had caught Stalin's eye. Upon closer examination of its natural and man-made resources he'd declared it insufficiently productive. The river Ufa ran nearby, there were the steel- and iron-processing plants in Sverdlovsk only a hundred and sixty kilometres east and ore mines in the mountains, and it had the benefit of the Trans-Siberian railwayvast locomotives pa.s.sed through this town each day and nothing more was added to them than planks of wood. He'd decided that this would be the ideal location to a.s.semble an automobile, the GAZ-20, a car intended to rival the vehicles produced in the West, built according to the highest specifications. It's successor, currently under designthe Volga GAZ-21was being upheld as the pinnacle of Soviet engineering, designed to survive the harsh climate with high ground clearance, enviable suspension, a bullet-proof engine and rust-proofing on a scale unheard of in the United States of America. Whether that was true or not, Leo had no way of knowing. He knew it was a car only a tiny per cent of Soviet citizens could afford, far beyond the financial reach of the men and women employed in its a.s.sembly.

Construction on the factory began some time after the war and eighteen months later the Volga a.s.sembly plant stood in the middle of the pine forests. He couldn't remember the number of prisoners reported to have died in its construction. Not that the numbers were reliable anyway. Leo had only become actively involved after the factory had been completed. Thousands of free free workers had been vetted and transferred by compulsory writ from cities across the country to fill the newly created labour gap: the population rising fivefold over the s.p.a.ce of five years. Leo had done background checks on some of the Moscow workers transferred here. If they'd pa.s.sed the checks, they were packed up and moved out within the week. If they failed, they were arrested. He'd been one of the gatekeepers to this town. He was sure that this was one of the reasons that Vasili had picked this place. The irony must have amused him. workers had been vetted and transferred by compulsory writ from cities across the country to fill the newly created labour gap: the population rising fivefold over the s.p.a.ce of five years. Leo had done background checks on some of the Moscow workers transferred here. If they'd pa.s.sed the checks, they were packed up and moved out within the week. If they failed, they were arrested. He'd been one of the gatekeepers to this town. He was sure that this was one of the reasons that Vasili had picked this place. The irony must have amused him.

Raisa missed this first glimpse of their new home. She was asleep, wrapped up in her coat, her head resting against the window, rocking slightly with the motion of the train. Moving to the seat beside his wife and facing in the direction they were travelling, he could see how the main town was latched onto the side of the vast a.s.sembly plant as though it was a tic sucking on the neck of a dog. First and foremost this was a place of industrial production, a distant second, a place to live. The lights of apartment blocks glowed dim orange against a grey sky. Leo nudged Raisa. She woke, looking at Leo, then out of the window.

-We're here.

The train pulled into the station. They collected their cases, stepping down onto the platform. It was colder than Moscowthe temperature had dropped by at least a couple of degrees. They stood like two evacuee children arriving in the country for the first time, staring at their unfamiliar surroundings. They'd been given no instructions. They knew no one. They didn't even have a number to call. No one was waiting for them.

The station building was empty except for a man seated at the ticket booth. He was young, not much more than twenty. He watched them intently as they entered the building. Raisa approached him.

-Good evening. We need to get to the headquarters of the militia.

-You're from Moscow?

-That's right.

The man opened the door of his ticket booth, stepping out onto the concourse. He pointed out of the gla.s.s doors towards the street outside.

-They're waiting for you.

One hundred paces from the station entrance was a militia car.

Pa.s.sing a snow-capped stone carving of Stalin's profile, chiselled into a slab of rock like a fossilized impression, Raisa and Leo moved towards the car, a GAZ-20, no doubt one of the cars produced by this town. As they got closer they could see two men sitting in the front. The door opened, one of the men stepped out, a middle-aged man with broad shoulders.

-Leo Demidov?

-Yes.