Two for the Devil. Allen Hoffman

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 nodded.

      “Remember, we’re all here in this building to protect you, because when we protect the revolution, we are protecting all of us, aren’t we?”

      Again Dmitri nodded, but this time in a curt, perfunctory manner.

      “So why don’t we just start at the beginning,” Grisha coaxed.

      Dmitri nodded and then reached to drink from his glass. Instead of the usual timid sip, he took two long gulps that almost drained the large tumbler. He grasped the glass tightly, his fingers blanching white, and his great fearful eyes swam in frenzy as if they were drowning in the copious fluid he had swallowed. Suddenly his lips began moving. Staring at the floor, he spoke so softly that at first Grisha wasn’t aware that he was talking. After several sentences he stopped. Although Grisha had not heard a word, he thought it best to be encouraging.

      “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Grisha asked. Without waiting for an answer, he continued. “It never is. It’s our imagination that is the problem.”

      “Yes, but what can we do about it?” Dmitri asked. His face wore a look of supplication.

      “Tell the truth,” Grisha stated triumphantly.

      “And that will control our imagination?” Dmitri countered doubtfully.

      Dmitri clearly thought that he, Grisha, had heard his confession. Grisha thought it better not to reveal the truth to him now. After all, there were lesser and greater truths, istina and pravda. Pravda was the very newspaper of the party, and only the party could determine the greater truth, the revolutionary truth. How could he begin to explain that to a nonparty person, and such a troubled one at that?

      “Of course the truth will help control the imagination. If necessary, the truth can even spark the revolutionary imagination. Lenin first imagined the revolution, didn’t he? And Stalin imagined the new man.”

      Grisha had added the latter for good form, but he noticed that the prisoner shrank back in horror.

      Embarrassed at his ignorance and frustrated by the failure of his gentle technique, Grisha asked abruptly, “When did all this begin?”

      The prisoner’s lips began to move.

      “I can’t hear a word you are saying. You’ll have to speak louder,” Grisha announced.

      “I’m sorry,” Dmitri said softly, but loud enough for Grisha to hear.

      “That’s better. Now, my friend, when did all this trouble begin?”

      “I think after Kirov, the Leningrad party chairman, was shot,” he answered.

      Here at last was something Grisha could sink his teeth into. Stalin himself had rushed to Leningrad to investigate the murder of the second most important Communist.

      “Were you in Leningrad at the time?” Grisha asked. Dmitri shook his head. “Did you know the assassin, Leonid Nikolayev?” A shake of the head in reply. “Were you involved with the desperate Zinovievite circles that manipulated Nikolayev?” Another negative response. “The White Guards, then?” A shake of the head. “Trotskyite?” Another no. “But you did welcome the Leningrad party chairman’s murder?” Grisha accused with certainty.

      “No,” Dmitri murmured innocently, horrified at the suggestion.

      “Why not?” Grisha asked, as if the prisoner had every reason to.

      The question confused the prisoner. “No,” he murmured. “I didn’t know very much about Kirov. I should have known more. He was one of the party’s most important leaders.” His voice trailed off.

      “In what way were you implicated in Kirov’s death?” Grisha asked, slightly exasperated.

      “In the way everyone was—a lack of vigilance and a lack of Communist awareness,” the prisoner answered.

      “And do you admit to this?” Grisha demanded.

      “I thought everyone did. Only party members spoke at the meetings, and they said we were all responsible.”

      “These were meetings of the library staff ?” Grisha asked. Dmitri nodded.

      “And they began after Kirov’s death?”

      “No, we had them before, but they weren’t so important. After Kirov’s murder, we began having them regularly, every day for two weeks. Work at the library practically came to a halt. We met from the afternoon until the late evening. We learned about the murder and the threats to the state.”

      “And it was at one of these meetings that you admitted your betrayal?”

      Dmitri shook his head.

      “You didn’t admit your betrayal?” Grisha asked reasonably.

      Again Dmitri shook his head.

      “What other possibility is there?” Grisha wondered affably. Without confirming or denying Grisha’s rhetorical question, the prisoner sat staring at the NKVD officer. Grisha waited while a tremor of guilt played across the man’s face like wind over water, then he asked gently, “Are you going to answer?”

      Dmitri nodded. He looked as if something were stuck in his throat.

      “I thought we agreed that you would feel better if you told the truth,” Grisha gently reminded him.

      “No one spoke except party members. They were very upset.”

      “At whom?”

      “At everyone.”

      “At everyone?” Grisha asked