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"Yes, sir." Volodya went out and closed the door behind him.
He stood in the corridor for a moment,
feeling unsteady. Then a passing clerk looked strangely at him and he forced himself to walk away.
He was going to have to do this. He would not torture Irina, of course: the threat would be enough. But she would surely think she was going to be tortured all over again, and that would terrify her out of her wits. Volodya felt that in her place he might go insane. He had never imagined, when he joined the Red Army, that he might have to do such things. Of course the army was about killing people, he knew that--but torturing girls?
The building was emptying, lights being switched off in offices, men with hats on in the corridors. It was time to go home. Returning to his office, Volodya called the military police and arranged to meet a squad at three thirty in the morning to arrest Irina. Then he put on his coat and went to catch a tram home.
Volodya lived with his parents, Grigori and Katerina, and his sister, Anya, nineteen, who was still at university. On the tram he wondered if he could talk to his father about this. He imagined saying: "Do we have to torture people in a Communist society?" But he knew what the answer would be. It was a temporary necessity, essential to defend the revolution against spies and subversives in the pay of the capitalist imperialists. Perhaps he could ask: "How long will it be until we can abandon such dreadful practises?" Of course his father would not know, nor would anyone else.
On their return from Berlin, the Peshkov family had moved into Government House, sometimes called the House on the Embankment, an apartment block across the river from the Kremlin, occupied by members of the Soviet elite. It was a huge building in the Constructivist style, with more than five hundred flats.
Volodya nodded at the military policeman at the door, then passed through the grand lobby--so large that some evenings there was dancing to a jazz band--and went up in the elevator. The apartment was luxurious by Soviet standards, with constant hot water and a phone, but it was not as pleasant as their home in Berlin.
His mother was in the kitchen. Katerina was an indifferent cook and an unenthusiastic housekeeper, but Volodya's father adored her. Back in 1914, in St. Petersburg, he had rescued her from the unwelcome attentions of a bullying policeman, and he had been in love with her ever since. She was still attractive at forty-three, Volodya guessed, and while the family had been on the diplomatic circuit she had learned how to dress more stylishly than most Russian women--though she was careful not to look Western, a serious offense in Moscow.
"Did you hurt your mouth?" she said to him after he kissed her hello.
"It's nothing." Volodya smelled chicken. "Special dinner?"
"Anya is bringing a boyfriend home."
"Ah! A fellow student?"
"I don't think so. I'm not sure what he does."
Volodya was pleased. He was fond of his sister, but he knew she was not beautiful. She was short and stumpy, and wore dull clothes in drab colors. She had not had many boyfriends, and it was good news that one liked her enough to come home with her.
He went to his room, took off his jacket, and washed his face and hands. His lips were almost back to normal: Markus had not hit him very hard. While he was drying his hands he heard voices, and gathered that Anya and her boyfriend had arrived.
He put on a knitted cardigan, for comfort, and left his room. He went into the kitchen. Anya was sitting at the table with a small, rat-faced man Volodya recognized. "Oh, no!" Volodya said. "You!"
It was Ilya Dvorkin, the NKVD agent who had arrested Irina. His disguise had gone, and he was dressed in a normal dark suit and decent boots. He stared at Volodya in surprise. "Of course--Peshkov!" he said. "I didn't make the connection."
Volodya turned to his sister. "Don't tell me this is your boyfriend."
Anya said in dismay: "What's the matter?"
Volodya said: "We met earlier today. He screwed up an important army operation by sticking his nose in where it didn't belong."
"I was doing my job," said Dvorkin. He wiped the end of his nose on his sleeve.
"Some job!"
Katerina stepped in to rescue the situation. "Don't bring your work home," she said. "Volodya, please pour a glass of vodka for our guest."
Volodya said: "Really?"
His mother's eyes flashed anger. "Really!"
"Okay." Reluctantly, he took the bottle from the shelf. Anya got glasses from a cupboard and Volodya poured.
Katerina took a glass and said: "Now, let's start again. Ilya, this is my son, Vladimir, who we always call Volodya. Volodya, this is Anya's friend Ilya, who has come to dinner. Why don't you shake hands."
Volodya had no option but to shake the man's hand.
Katerina put snacks on the table: smoked fish, pickled cucumber, sliced sausage. "In summer we have salad that I grow at the dacha, but at this time of year of course there is nothing," she said apologetically. Volodya realized she was keen to impress Ilya. Did his mother really want Anya to marry this creep? He supposed she must.
