Tatiana and Alexander. Paullina Simons

man shook his head.

      “What?” said Alexander. “You asked me to answer your question. I did. Now you answer mine.”

      “Leonid Slonko,” said the interrogator. “Does that make any difference to you?”

      Alexander studied him very carefully. He had heard the name Slonko before. “Did you say you came from Leningrad to talk to me?”

      “Yes.”

      “You work in Leningrad?”

      “Yes.”

      “A long time, Comrade Slonko? They tell me you’re very good at your job. A long time in your line of work?”

      “Twenty-three years.”

      Alexander whistled appreciatively. “Where in Leningrad?”

      “Where what?”

      “Where do you work? Kresty? Or the House of Detention on Millionnaya?”

      “What do you know about the House of Detention, Major?”

      “I know it was built during Alexander II’s reign in 1864. Is that where you work?”

      “Occasionally I interview prisoners there, yes.”

      Nodding, Alexander went on. “Nice city, Leningrad. I’m still not used to it, though.”

      “No? Well, why would you be?”

      “That’s right, why would I? I prefer Krasnodar. It’s warmer.” Alexander smiled. “And your title, comrade?”

      “I’m chief of operations,” Slonko replied.

      “Not a military man, then? I didn’t think so.”

      Slonko bolted up, holding Alexander’s clothes in his hands. “It just occurred to me, Major,” he said, “that we are finished here.”

      “I agree,” said Alexander. “Thanks for coming by.”

      Slonko departed in such an angry rush that he left the lamp and the chair. It was some time before the guard came in and took them.

      Darkness again.

      So debilitating. But nothing so diminishing as fear.

      This time he didn’t wait long.

      The door opened and two guards came in and ordered him to come with them. Alexander said, “I’m not dressed.”

      “You won’t need clothes where you’re going.”

      The guards were young and eager—the worst kind. He walked between them, slightly ahead of them, barefoot up the stone stairs, and down the corridor of the school, out the back way to the woods, barefoot in the March slush. Were they going to ask him to dig a hole? He felt the rifles at his back. Alexander’s feet were numb, and his body was going numb, but his chest wasn’t numb, his heart wasn’t numb, and if only his heart could stop hurting, he would be able to take it much better.

      He remembered the ten-year-old Cub Scout, the American boy, the Soviet boy. The bare trees were ghostly but for a moment he was happy to smell the cold air and to see the gray sky. It’s going to be all right, he thought. If Tania is in Helsinki and remembers what I told her, then she would have convinced Sayers to leave as soon as possible. Perhaps they’ve gone already. Perhaps they’re already in Stockholm. And then nothing else matters.

      “Turn around,” one of the guards said.

      “Do I stop walking first?” Alexander said. His teeth chattered.

      “Stop walking,” said the flustered guard, “and turn around.”

      He stopped walking. He turned around.

      “Alexander Belov,” said the shorter guard in the most pompous voice he could muster, “you have been found guilty of treason and espionage against our Motherland during the time of war against our country. The punishment for military treason is death, to be carried out immediately.”

      Alexander stood still. He put his feet together and his hands at his side. Unblinkingly he looked at the guards. They blinked.

      “Well, now what?” he asked.

      “The punishment for treason is death,” the short guard repeated. He came over to Alexander, proffering a black blindfold. “Here,” he said. Alexander noticed the young man’s hands were shaking.

      “How old are you, Corporal?” he asked quietly.

      “Twenty-three,” replied the guard.

      “Funny—me too,” said Alexander. “Just think, three days ago I was a major in the Red Army. Three days ago I had a Hero of the Soviet Union medal pinned to my chest. Amazing, isn’t it?”

      The guard’s hands continued to shake as he lifted the blindfold to Alexander’s face. Alexander backed away and shook his head. “Forget it. And I’m not turning around, either.”

      “I’m just following orders, Major,” said the young guard, and Alexander suddenly recognized him as one of the corporals who had been in the emplacement with him three months ago at the storming of the Neva to break the Leningrad blockade. He was the corporal Alexander had left on the anti-aircraft gun as he ran out to help Anatoly Marazov.

      “Corporal … Ivanov?” Alexander said. “Well, well. I hope you do a better job shooting me than you did blowing up those fucking Luftwaffe planes that nearly killed us.”

      The corporal wouldn’t even look at Alexander. “You’re going to have to look at me when you aim, Corporal,” Alexander said, standing tall and straight. “Otherwise you will miss.”

      Ivanov went to stand by the other guard. “Please turn away, Major,” he said.

      “No,” Alexander said, his hands at his sides, and his eyes on the two men with rifles. “Here I am. What are you afraid of? As you can see I’m nearly naked and I’m unarmed.”

      He pulled himself up taller. The two guards were paralyzed. “Comrades,” said Alexander. “I will not be the one to issue you an order to lift your rifles. You’re going to have to do that on your own.”

      The other corporal said, “All right, lift your rifle, Ivanov.”

      They lifted their rifles. Alexander looked into the barrel of one of the guns. He blinked. O God, please look after Tania all alone in the world.

      “On three,” said the corporal, as the two men cocked their rifles.

      “One—”

      “Two—”

      Alexander looked into their faces. They were both so afraid. He looked into his own heart. He was cold, and he felt that he had unfinished business on this earth, business that couldn’t wait an eternity. Instead of seeing the trembling corporals, Alexander saw his eleven-year-old face in the mirror of his room in Boston the day he was leaving America. What kind of man have I become? he thought. Have I become the man my father wanted me to be? His mouth tightened. He didn’t know. But he knew that he had become the man he himself wanted to be. That would have to be good enough at a time like this, he thought, squaring his shoulders. He was ready for “three.”

      But “three” did not come.

      “Wait!” He heard a voice shout from the side. The guards put down their rifles. Slonko, dressed in a warm coat, felt hat and leather gloves, walked briskly to Alexander. “Stand down, Corporals.” Slonko threw a coat he was carrying onto Alexander’s back. “Major Belov, you’re a lucky man. General Mekhlis himself has issued a pardon on your behalf.” He put his hand on Alexander. Why did that make Alexander shudder?

      “Come. Let’s go back. You need to get dressed. You’ll freeze in this weather.”

      Alexander studied Slonko coldly. He had once read about Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s