Who loves you most? Correct answer: Stalin.

Who do you love most? Correct answer: see above

(wrong answers to be logged).

What should you never do? Correct answer:

play on the railway tracks.

Raisa could only presume that the reason behind this latest edict was that the Party was worried about population levels.

As a rule her cla.s.ses were tiring, perhaps more so than other subjects. Whereas there was no expectation that students should clap the completion of every mathematical equation there was an expectation that every p.r.o.nouncement she made regarding Generalissimo Stalin, the state of the Soviet Union or the prospects for worldwide revolution be met with applause. Students were compet.i.tive with each other, none of them wanting to seem less dedicated than their neighbour. Every five minutes the cla.s.s would come to a halt as the children rose to their feet, stamping their shoes on the floor or banging their desks with their fists, and Raisa was duty bound to stand and join in. In order to stop her hands chafing, she clapped in a fashion whereby her palms would barely touch, gliding over each other in the imitation of enthusiasm. Initially she'd suspected that the children enjoyed this raucous behaviour and exploited any opportunity to interrupt a cla.s.s. She'd come to realize this was not the case. They were afraid. Consequently discipline was never a problem. She rarely needed to raise her voice and never made threats of any kind. Even from the age of six the children understood that to disrespect authority, to speak out of turn, was to take your life into your own hands. Youth provided no protection. The age at which a child could be shot for their crimes, or their father's crimes, was twelve. That was a lesson Raisa wasn't allowed to teach.

Despite the large cla.s.s sizes, which would have been larger still had it not been for the war playing havoc with demographics, she'd originally set out with the objective of remembering every student's name. Her intention had been to show that she cared about each student individually. Yet very quickly she'd noticed her ability to recall names struck a peculiar note of unease. It was as though there were some implied menace.

If I can remember your name I can denounce you.

These children had already grasped the value of anonymity and Raisa had realized they'd prefer it if she paid them as little individual attention as possible. After less than two months she'd stopped calling them by their names and reverted to pointing.

Yet, comparatively, she had little reason to complain. The school she taught in, Secondary School 7a rectangular building raised on stubby concrete legshappened to be one of the gems of the State education policy. Much photographed and publicized, it was opened by none other than Nikita Khrushchev, who'd made a speech in the new gymnasium, the floor of which had been waxed to such an extent that his bodyguards struggled not to slip. He'd claimed that education must be tailored to the country's needs. And what the country needed were highly productive, healthy young scientists, engineers and Olympic gold-medal-winning athletes. The cathedral-sized gymnasium, adjacent to the main building, was wider and deeper then the school itself, equipped with an indoor running track, an array of mats, hoops, rope ladders and springboards, all of which were put to good use by an extracurricular timetable that included an hour of training every day for every student regardless of age or ability. The implication of both his speech and the design of the school itself had been always very clear to Raisa: the country didn't need poets, philosophers and priests. It needed productivity that could be measured and quantified, success that could be timed with a stopwatch.

Raisa counted only one friend amongst her colleaguesIvan Kuzmitch Zhukov, a language and literature teacher. She didn't know his exact age, he wouldn't say, but he was around about forty. Their friendship had occurred by chance. He'd casually lamented the size of the school librarya cupboardlike room in the bas.e.m.e.nt next to the boiler stocked with pamphlets, back issues of Pravda Pravda, approved texts and not a single foreign author. Hearing him, Raisa had whispered that he should be more careful. That whisper had been the beginning of an unlikely friendship which, from her point of view, might have been strategically unwise considering Ivan's tendency to speak his mind. He was in many people's eyes already a marked man. Other teachers were convinced that he h.o.a.rded forbidden texts under his floorboards or, far worse, he was writing a book of his own and smuggling the no doubt subversive pages out to the West. It was true that he'd loaned her an illegal translation of For Whom the Bell Tolls For Whom the Bell Tolls, which she'd been forced to read in parks over the summer and which she'd never dared take back to her apartment. Raisa could afford the a.s.sociation only because her own loyalty had never been too closely scrutinized. She was, after all, the wife of a State Security officer, a fact known by almost everyone, including some of the students. Logically, Ivan should have kept his distance. No doubt he rea.s.sured himself with the deduction that if Raisa had wanted to denounce him she would have done so already, considering how many imprudent things she'd heard him say and how easy it would for her to whisper his name across the pillow into the ear of her husband. So it came to be that the only person she trusted amongst the staff was the man most mistrusted and the only person he trusted was the woman he should trust least of all. He was married, with three children. All the same she suspected he was in love with her. It was not something she dwelt on and she hoped for both their sakes that it was not something he dwelt on either.

Outside the main entrance to the school, across the road, in the foyer of a low-rise apartment block, stood Leo. He'd changed out of his uniform and was wearing civilian clothing, clothing he'd borrowed from work. In the Lubyanka there were cupboards full of odds and ends: coats, jackets, trousersall of various sizes and differing in quality, kept for exactly this purpose. Leo hadn't thought about where these clothes had come from until he'd found a spot of blood on the cuff of a cotton shirt. They were the clothes of those executed in the building on Varsonofyevsky Lane. They'd been washed, of course, but some stains were stubborn. Dressed in an ankle-length grey woollen coat and a thick fur hat pulled down over his forehead, Leo was convinced his wife wouldn't recognize him if by chance she glanced in his direction. He stamped his feet to keep warm, checking his watch, a stainless-steel Poljot Aviatora birthday present from his wife. There wasn't long until her cla.s.ses were finished for the day. He glanced at the light above him. Using an abandoned mop he reached up and smashed the bulb, plunging the foyer into shadow. a stainless-steel Poljot Aviatora birthday present from his wife. There wasn't long until her cla.s.ses were finished for the day. He glanced at the light above him. Using an abandoned mop he reached up and smashed the bulb, plunging the foyer into shadow.

This wasn't the first time his wife had been followed. Three years ago Leo had arranged surveillance for reasons that had nothing to do with whether or not she was a security risk. They'd been married less than a year. She'd become increasingly distant. They were living together yet living apart, working long hours, glimpsing each other briefly in the morning and evening with as little interaction as two fishing boats which set sail each day from the same port. He didn't believe that he'd changed as a husband and so couldn't understand why she'd changed as a wife. Whenever he broached the subject she'd claimed she felt unwell yet she refused to see a doctor and anyway who was unwell month after month after month? The only explanation he could come up with was that she was in love with another man.

Duly suspicious he'd dispatched a newly recruited, promising young agent to follow his wife. This agent had done so every day for a week. Leo had justified this course of action because although unpleasant it was motivated by love. However, it had been a risk, not merely in the sense that Raisa might find out. If his colleagues had found out they might have interpreted this matter differently. If Leo couldn't trust his wife s.e.xually how could they trust her politically? Unfaithful or not, subversive or not, it would be better for everyone if she was sent to the Gulags. Just to be sure. But Raisa hadn't been having an affair and no one ever found out about the surveillance. Relieved, he had accepted that he simply needed to be patient, attentive and help her with whatever difficulty she was going through. Over the months their relationship had gradually improved. Leo had transferred the young agent to a post in Leningrad, a move which he'd packaged as a promotion.

This mission, however, was something entirely different. The order to investigate had come from above. This was official State business; a matter of national security. At stake was not their marriage but their lives. There was no doubt in Leo's mind that Raisa's name had been inserted into Anatoly Brodsky's confession by Vasili. The fact that another agent corroborated the details of the confession meant nothing: either it was a conspiracy, a bare-faced lie, or Vasili had planted the name in Brodsky's head at some point during his interrogation, an easy enough thing to do. Leo blamed himself. Taking time off work had given Vasili an opportunity which he'd exploited with perfect ruthlessness. Leo was trapped. He couldn't claim the confession itself was a lieit was an official doc.u.ment as valid and true as every other confession. The only course of action had been to register his profound disbelief, suggesting that the traitor Brodsky was trying to incriminate Raisa as an act of revenge. Upon hearing this explanation Kuzmin had asked how the traitor knew that he was married. Desperate, Leo had been forced to lie, claiming that he'd mentioned his wife's name in the course of their conversations. Leo was not a skilful liar. By defending his wife he was incriminating himself. To stand up for someone was to st.i.tch your fate into the lining of theirs. Kuzmin had concluded that such a potential breach of security would have to be thoroughly investigated. Either Leo could do it himself or allow another operative to take over. Hearing this ultimatum, he'd accepted the case on the basis that he was simply trying to clear his wife's name. In much the same way that three years ago he'd put to bed his doubts about her faithfulness, now he had to put to bed doubts about her faithfulness to the State.

Across the road children poured out of the school, breaking off in all directions. One young girl ran across the road, heading straight towards Leo and entering the apartment block where he was hiding. As she pa.s.sed by in the gloom, her feet crunching on the shards of bulb gla.s.s, she paused, weighing up whether or not to speak. Leo turned to look at her. The girl had long black hair tied with a red band. She was perhaps seven years old. Her cheeks were pink with the cold. Quite suddenly she broke into a run, her little shoes tapping up the flight of stairs, away from this stranger and back home where she was still young enough to believe she was safe.

Leo moved to the gla.s.s door, watching as the last of the students filed out of the building. He knew Raisa wasn't timetabled for any extracurricular activitiesshe'd be leaving soon. There she was, at the entrance, standing with a male colleague. He had a trim grey beard, round gla.s.ses. Leo noted that he was not an unattractive man. He looked educated, cultivated, refined, with busy eyes and a satchel br.i.m.m.i.n.g with books. This must be Ivan: Raisa had mentioned him, the language teacher. At a guess Leo reckoned this man was older than him by at least ten years.

Leo willed them to separate at the gates but instead they set off together, walking side by side in casual conversation. He waited, allowing them to get ahead. They were familiar with each other, Raisa laughed at a joke and Ivan seemed pleased. Did Leo make her laugh? Not really, not often. He certainly didn't object to being laughed at when he was foolish or clumsy. He had a sense of humour in that regard but no, he didn't tell jokes. Raisa did. She was playful, verbally, intellectually. Ever since they'd first met, ever since she'd tricked him into believing she was called Lena, he'd never been in any doubt that she was smarter than him. Considering the risks a.s.sociated with intellectual agility, he'd never been jealousuntil now, watching her with this man.

Leo's feet were numb. He was glad to be on the move, trailing his wife at a distance of about fifty metres. In the weak orange glow of the street lights it wasn't difficult to follow herthere were hardly any other people on the street. That changed when they turned on Avtozavodskaya, the main road, which was also the name of the metro station to which they were almost certainly heading. There were queues of people lined up outside grocery stores, clogging the pavements. Leo found it hard to keep track of his wife, made harder by her nondescript clothes. He had no choice but to shorten the distance between them, quickening his pace. He was less than twenty metres behind her. At this distance there was a danger she'd see him. Raisa and Ivan turned into Avtozavodskaya station, disappearing from view. Leo hurried forward, weaving in and out of the pedestrians. In the commuter crowds she might easily disappear. This was, as Pravda Pravda frequently boasted, the busiest and best metro system in the world. frequently boasted, the busiest and best metro system in the world.

Reaching the entrance to the station he descended the stone steps to the lower hallan opulent chamber, an amba.s.sador's reception, with cream marble pillars, polished mahogany banisters illuminated by domes of frosted gla.s.s. Rush hour and not a centimetre of floor could be seen. Thousands of people wrapped up in long coats and scarves hustled in line at the ticket barriers. Going against the flow, Leo backtracked up the steps, using this slight elevation to survey the heads of the crowd. Raisa and Ivan had pa.s.sed through the steel ticket barrier and were waiting for a place on the escalator. Leo rejoined the throng, sliding into gaps, edging forward. But stuck behind a ma.s.s of bodies he had no option but to resort to less polite methods, using his hands to steer people aside. No one dared do anything more than look annoyed, no one knew who Leo might be.

Reaching the ticket barrier, he was in time to see his wife move out of sight. He pa.s.sed through, queuing and taking the first available position on the escalator. Stretching down the flight of mechanical wooden steps in a diagonal line to the bottom were the tops of a hundred winter hats. Unable to distinguish one from the other he leaned to the right. Raisa was maybe fifteen steps below him. In order to talk to Ivan, who was standing on the step behind and above her, she'd turned round and was facing upwards. Leo was in her line of view. He pulled back behind the man in front of him and, not wanting to risk another glance, waited until he was almost at the lower level before looking again. The pa.s.sageway divided into two tunnels, for trains travelling north and south, each filled with pa.s.sengers, shuffling forward, trying to make their way onto the platforms, vying for a position on the next train. Leo couldn't see his wife anywhere.

If Raisa was en route home she'd be heading three stops north on the Zamoskvoretskaya line to Teatral'naya, where she'd change. With no choice other than to suppose this was what she was doing, he moved down the platform, looking right and left, studying the faces lined up, crammed together, staring out in the same direction, waiting for the train. He was halfway down the platform. Raisa wasn't here. Could she have taken a train in the other direction? Why would she go south? Suddenly a man moved and Leo caught a glimpse of a satchel. There was Ivan. Raisa was by his side, both of them standing by the platform's edge. Leo was so close he could almost reach out and touch her cheek. If she turned her head even a fraction they'd be eye to eye. He was almost certainly in her peripheral vision; if she hadn't seen him it was only because she wasn't expecting to see him. There was nothing he could do, nowhere to hide. He continued down the platform, waiting for her to call his name. He wouldn't be able to explain this as a coincidence. She'd see through his lie, she'd know he was following her. He counted twenty steps then came to a stop by the edge of the platform, staring at the mosaic in front of him. Three separate lines of sweat ran down the side of his face. He didn't dare wipe them away or turn to check in case she was looking in his direction. He tried to concentrate on the mosaic, a celebration of Soviet military strengtha tank with its barrel pointing straight out, flanked by heavy artillery and mounted by Russian soldiers in long sweeping coats brandishing guns. Very slowly he turned his head. Raisa was talking to Ivan. She hadn't seen him. A gust of warm air blew down the crowded platform. The train was approaching.

As everyone turned to watch, Leo caught sight of a man looking in the opposite direction, away from the oncoming train, looking directly at him. It was the briefest of glances, eye contact for a fraction of a second. The man was maybe thirty years old. Leo had never seen him before. Yet he knew immediately this man was a fellow Chekist, a State Security operative. There was a second agent on the platform.

The crowd surged forward towards the train doors. The agent was gone, out of sight. The doors opened. Leo hadn't moved; his body was turned away from the train, still staring at the exact point where he'd seen those cool, professional eyes. Brushed aside by pa.s.sengers disembarking he recovered from his surprise and boarded the train, one carriage down from Raisa. Who was that agent? Why did they need a second agent following his wife? Didn't they trust him? Of course they didn't. But he hadn't expected them to take such extreme supplementary measures. He pushed his way down towards the window through which he'd be able to see into the adjoining carriage. He could see Raisa's hand, holding the side bar. But there was no sign of this second agent. The doors were about to shut.

The second agent boarded the same carriage as Leo, slipping past him with apparent indifference and taking up position several metres away. He was well trained, calm, and had it not been for that brief glance Leo might not have spotted him. This agent wasn't following Raisa. He was following Leo.

He should've guessed that this operation wouldn't have been left entirely in his hands. There was the possibility he was compromised. They might even suspect he was working with Raisa if she was a spy. His superiors had an obligation to make sure he did his job properly. Anything he reported back would be cross-checked with the other agent. For this reason it was essential that Raisa go straight home: if she went anywhere else, the wrong restaurant or bookshop, the wrong home where the wrong people lived, she'd be putting herself at risk. Her only chance of escape, and it was a slim chance, was by saying nothing, doing nothing, meeting n.o.body. She could work, shop and sleep. Any other activities were liable to be misconstrued.

If Raisa was travelling home she'd remain on this train for the next three stops, reaching Teatral'naya station, where she'd change to the ArbatskoPokrovskaya line and travel eastwards. Leo checked on the officer following him. Someone had stood to disembark and the agent slipped into a vacant seat. He was now casually staring out of the window, no doubt studiously watching Leo out of the corner of his eye. The agent knew he'd been sighted. Perhaps that had even been his intention. None of it mattered as long as Raisa went straight home.

The train pulled into the second stationNovokuznetskaya. One more stop till they changed. The doors opened. Leo watched as Ivan disembarked. He thought:

Please stay on the train.

Raisa got off the train, stepping down onto the platform and making her way towards the exit. She wasn't going home. Leo didn't know where she was going. To follow her would expose her to the scrutiny of the second agent. Not to follow her would put his life in jeopardy. He had to choose. Leo turned his head. The agent hadn't moved. From that position he couldn't have seen Raisa get off the train. He was taking his cue from Leo not Raisa, presuming that the movements of the two were synchronized. The doors were about to shut. Leo stayed where he was.

Leo glanced to the side, through the window, as though Raisa was still in the adjoining carriage, as though he was still checking on her. What was he doing? It had been an impulsive, reckless decision. His plan depended on the agent believing that his wife was on the train; a rickety plan at best. Leo hadn't counted on the crowds. Raisa and Ivan were still on the platform, moving towards the exit with excruciating slowness. Since the agent was staring out the window he'd see them as soon as the train began to move. Raisa edged closer to the exit, queuing patiently. She was in no hurry, she had no reason to be, unaware that both her life and Leo's were in danger unless she moved out of sight. The train began to roll forward. Their carriage was almost in line with the exit. The agent would see Raisa for surehe'd know that Leo had deliberately failed.

The train picked up speedit was parallel to the exit. Raisa was standing in plain view. Leo felt the blood rush from his stomach. He slowly turned his head to see the agent's reaction. A st.u.r.dy middle-aged man and his st.u.r.dy middle-aged wife were standing in the aisle, blocking any view the agent might have of the platform. The train rattled into the tunnel. He hadn't seen Raisa at the exit. He didn't know Raisa was no longer on the train. Barely able to conceal his relief, Leo resumed his pantomime of staring into the adjoining carriage.

At Teatral'naya station, Leo waited for as long as possible before getting off the train, acting as though he was still following his wife, as though she was heading home. He moved towards the exit. Glancing back he saw that the agent had also disembarked and was trying to catch up some of the ground between them. Leo pressed forward.

The pa.s.sage funnelled out into a thoroughfare with access either to the different lines or to the street-level exit. He had to lose this tail without appearing to do so. The tunnel to the right would take him to trains travelling east on the ArbatskoPokrovskaya line, the route home. Leo turned right. Much depended upon the arrival of the next train. If he could get far enough ahead then he might be able to board the train before the agent caught up and realized Raisa wasn't on the platform.

Now in the tunnel which led to the platform he was faced with crowds of people in front of him. Suddenly he heard the sound of an approaching train, pulling into the platform. There was no way he could reach it in time, not with all these people in front of him. He reached into his jacket pocket, taking out his State Security ident.i.ty card and tapping it on the shoulder of the man in front of him. As though scalded, the man stepped aside, the woman stepped aside, the crowd parted. With a clear path he was able to hurry forward. The train was there, its doors open, ready to go. He put his card away and boarded. He turned to see how close his tail was. If the man managed to catch up and board this train, the game was up.

The people who'd moved out of the way had closed ranks. The agent was stuck behind them, resorting to less subtle methods, pushing and shoving people out the way. He was catching up. Why weren't the doors closing? The agent was now at the platform, only metres away. The doors began to close. His hand darted out, grabbing the side of the door. But the mechanism wouldn't be pulled back and the manwho Leo saw closely for the first timehad no choice but to let go. Maintaining an air of casual indifference Leo tried not to react, watching out of the corner of his eyes as the agent was left behind. In the darkness of the tunnel Leo took off his sweat-sodden hat.

Same Day The elevator came to a stop on the fifth floor, the top floor, the doors opened and Leo stepped out into the narrow corridor. The hallway smelt of cooking. It was seven in the evening, the time at which many families ate uzhin, uzhin, the last meal of the day. As he walked past the apartments he could hear the sound of dinner preparations through the thin plywood front doors. The closer he got to his parents' apartment the more tired he felt. He'd spent several hours criss-crossing the city. After losing the agent following him at Teatral'naya station he'd returned home, to apartment 124, turning on the lights and radio, drawing the curtainsa necessary precaution even though they were on the fourteenth floor. He'd left again, taking a deliberately circuitous route to the metro and travelling back into the city. He hadn't changed his clothes and he regretted not doing so. They'd become unpleasant; his shirt, drenched with sweat, had dried and stuck to his back. He was sure it stank although he couldn't smell it himself. He brushed these concerns aside. His parents wouldn't care. They'd be too distracted by the fact he was asking their advice; something he hadn't done in a long time. the last meal of the day. As he walked past the apartments he could hear the sound of dinner preparations through the thin plywood front doors. The closer he got to his parents' apartment the more tired he felt. He'd spent several hours criss-crossing the city. After losing the agent following him at Teatral'naya station he'd returned home, to apartment 124, turning on the lights and radio, drawing the curtainsa necessary precaution even though they were on the fourteenth floor. He'd left again, taking a deliberately circuitous route to the metro and travelling back into the city. He hadn't changed his clothes and he regretted not doing so. They'd become unpleasant; his shirt, drenched with sweat, had dried and stuck to his back. He was sure it stank although he couldn't smell it himself. He brushed these concerns aside. His parents wouldn't care. They'd be too distracted by the fact he was asking their advice; something he hadn't done in a long time.

The balance of their relationship had shiftedhe now helped them far more than they helped him. Leo liked it that way. He enjoyed the feeling of being able to secure them easier jobs at their places of work. With nothing more than a polite enquiry his father had become a foreman at the munitions factory, taken off the a.s.sembly line, while his mother, who spent her days st.i.tching parachutes, had been given a similar rise in status. He'd improved their access to foodno longer did they have to queue for several hours for basics such as bread and buckwheat; instead they were given access to the spetztorgi spetztorgi, the special shops not intended for the general public. In these restricted shops there were exotic delights such as fresh fish, saffron and even slabs of real dark chocolate, instead of the synthetic kind which subst.i.tuted cocoa with a blend of rye, barley, wheat and peas. If his parents had trouble with a quarrelsome neighbour, that neighbour never remained quarrelsome for long. There was no violence involved, no crude threats, just a hint that they were dealing with a family better connected than their own.

This apartment, the apartment he'd managed to have them allocated, was in a pleasant residential area in the north of the citya low-rise block where each apartment could boast of private washroom facilities and its own small balcony overlooking a small stretch of gra.s.s and a quiet road. They shared it with no one: extraordinary in this city. After fifty years of hardship they finally enjoyed a privileged life, a fact his parents keenly appreciated. They'd become addicted to comfort. And it all hung by the thread of Leo's career.

Leo knocked on the door. When his mother, Anna, opened the door she seemed surprised. That surprise, which rendered her briefly speechless, melted away. She stepped forward, hugging her son, speaking excitedly.

-Why didn't you tell us you were coming? We heard you wereill. We came over to see you but you were asleep. Raisa let us in. We looked in on you, I even held your hand but what could we do? You needed your rest. You were sleeping like a child.

-Raisa told me you came round. Thank you for the fruitthe oranges and the lemons.

-We didn't bring any fruit. At least I don't think we did. I'm getting old. Maybe we did!

Having heard the conversation his father, Stepan, appeared from the kitchen, gently nudging past his wife. She'd gained a little weight recently. They'd both gained a little weight. They looked well.

Stepan embraced his son.

-Are you better?

-Yes, much.

-That's good. We were worried about you.

-How's your back?

-It hasn't hurt for while now. One of the benefits of an administrative job, all I do is oversee other people's hard work. I walk around with a pen and a clipboard.

-Enough with the guilt. You've done your time.

-Perhaps, but people look at you differently when you're no longer one of them. My friends are not quite so friendly any more. If someone is late, I'm the one who has to report them. Thankfully no one has been late so far.

Leo rolled these words around his head.

-What would you do if they were late? Would you report them?

-I just keep telling them every evening, don't be late.

No, in other words, his father would not report them. He'd probably already overlooked a couple of cases. Right now wasn't the time to warn him, but that kind of generosity was liable to be found out.

In the kitchen a head of cabbage was bubbling in a copper pot of water. His parents were in the middle of preparing golubsty golubsty and Leo told them to carry on, they could talk in the kitchen. He stood back and watched as his father mixed together mince (fresh meat, not dried, possible only because of Leo's job), fresh grated carrots (once again possible only because of him) and cooked rice. His mother set about peeling the colour-drained leaves from the cooked cabbage head. His parents knew something was wrong and waited, without prompting, for Leo to begin. He was glad they were busy with the food. and Leo told them to carry on, they could talk in the kitchen. He stood back and watched as his father mixed together mince (fresh meat, not dried, possible only because of Leo's job), fresh grated carrots (once again possible only because of him) and cooked rice. His mother set about peeling the colour-drained leaves from the cooked cabbage head. His parents knew something was wrong and waited, without prompting, for Leo to begin. He was glad they were busy with the food.

-We've never spoken much about my work. That's for the best. There have been times when I've found my job difficult. I've done things of which I'm not proud but which were always necessary.

Leo paused, trying to work out how best to proceed. He asked: -Have any of your acquaintances been arrested?

The question was awkward, Leo appreciated that. Stepan and Anna glanced at each other before carrying on with the food, no doubt glad to have something to do. Anna shrugged.

-Everyone knows someone who's been arrested. But we don't question it. I say to myself: you officers are the ones with the evidence. I know only what I see of people and it is very easy to appear to be nice and normal and loyal. It is your job to see past that. You know what's best for this country. It is not for people like us to judge.

Leo nodded, adding.

-This country has many enemies. Our Revolution is hated around the world. We must protect it. Unfortunately even from ourselves.

He paused. He hadn't come here to repeat State rhetoric. His parents stopped working, turning to face their son, their fingers sticky with oils from the mince.

-Yesterday I was asked to denounce Raisa. My superior officers believe she's a traitor. They believe she's a spy working for a foreign agency. I've been ordered to investigate.

A single drop of oil dripped from Stepan's finger onto the floor. He stared at the drop of grease and then asked: -Is she a traitor?

-Father, she's a schoolteacher. She works. She comes home. She works. She comes home.

-Then tell them that. Is there any evidence? Why do they even think such a thing?

-There's the confession of an executed spy. He named her. He claimed he'd worked with her. But I know that confession is a lie. I know that the spy was in reality nothing more than a vet. We made a mistake in arresting him. I believe his confession to be the fabrication of another officer trying to implicate me. I know my wife is innocent. The whole thing is an act of revenge.

Stepan wiped his hands clean on Anna's ap.r.o.n.

-Tell them the truth. Make them listen. Expose this officer. You are in a position of authority.

-This confession, whether fabricated or not, has been accepted as the truth. It's an official doc.u.ment and her name is on it. If I defend Raisa I'm contesting the validity of a State doc.u.ment. If they admit one is flawed then they admit all of them are. They cannot go back. The repercussions would be enormous. It would mean all confessions were up for question.

-Can you not say that this spythis vetwas mistaken?

-Yes. That is what I intend to do. But if I make a case and they don't believe me then not only will they arrest her they will arrest me too. If she is guilty and I've claimed she's innocent then I am guilty too. That isn't all. I know how these matters play out. There's a very strong chance that they will arrest both of you. Part of the judicial code targets any family members of a convicted criminal. We're guilty by a.s.sociation.

-And if you denounce her?

-I don't know.

-Yes you do.

-We'll survive. She won't.

The water was still bubbling on the stove. At last Stepan spoke.

-You're here because you're unsure what to do. You're here because you're a good man and you want us to tell you to do the right thing, the decent thing. You want us to give you the right advice. Which would be to tell them that they're wrong, to tell them that Raisa is innocent. And to brave the consequences that come from that.

-Yes.