The Metronome (The Counterpoint Trilogy Book 1) Page 21

  “Konstantin, please.”

  “Konstantin, there is something else you discussed with my father a few months ago, right?”

  “Why do you say this?”

  “Palmer’s testimony is a public record. You have not told me much more than that.”

  Mershov stops, points to a wooden bench amongst the trees.

  “Let’s sit down. Yes, I told your father more, and he is dead now. How do I know it was not my information that killed him? Let me see that paper again.”

  I hand him the Streltsova’s paper.

  Mershov studies it, his finger going over handwritten comments. “Where did you get this?”

  “They belonged to Natalya Streltsova. She was killed in California a couple of years ago.”

  Mershov nods. “Yes, that’s what Vladimir…I mean your father…said. She worked for Boris Sosnovsky, the oligarch that had to leave Russia and not long ago was found hanging in his house in Paris.”

  “The newspaper reported it was a suicide because the door was locked from the inside…”

  Mershov gives a short laugh that turns into a cough. “Sure, a suicide …. And Nikolai Kruchina jumped down that stairwell because he was depressed, nobody pushed him. Sosnovsky was an insider in the Kremlin in the 1990s. He must have known something. When he had fallen out of favor and had to run away rather than get arrested like one of his oligarch friends, he wanted payback. Perhaps he was feeding information to Streltsova for an expose.”

  “Do you know this?”

  “No. That’s what your father thought. He knew more than he was willing to tell me. He came to me to verify his theory about the ‘Stage Seven.’ You saw how Palmer in ’99 spoke of six stages? Remember, ‘they’ originally transferred the assets to take care of themselves. But by 1999, the KGB – with the new names like the FSB, the GRU, the SVR – was back in charge. Actually, more than before. They had their president, they had their oligarchs in control of the economy, they had their people in command of most of the state organizations. They were the government. And the assets could now be used in service of their policies. At least that’s what was being whispered.”

  “Whispered?”

  “I was not high enough to know, just high enough to hear an occasional drunken whisper.”

  “What about that name that Streltsova wrote? Nemschev?”

  “I don’t know about ‘Nemschev,’ but there was an ambitious officer Nikolai Nemzhov in the St. Petersburg’s KGB. He transferred to Moscow, where he is now a colonel in the GRU.”

  I remember Saratov’s words when I was attacked on the Leninskiy Prospekt: The colonel’s orders were to take the package and let him be. “He was from St. Petersburg?”

  “St. Petersburg’s KGB and St. Petersburg State University have been the training ground for our current political elite. We even referred to ourselves as the ‘St. Petersburg Mafia’ and joked that this is revenge on Stalin, who was believed by some to hate the city.”

  “Konstantin, can I ask why you left Moscow and moved back to St. Petersburg? You had a rank of colonel. You were what – sixty-two?”

  “Sixty-three. You see, Pavel, my career ended on May 27, 1997. That’s when Yeltsin signed the NATO-Russia Founding Act. A wave of protests arose immediately because the document was believed to provide NATO, a military organization, with a blank check to extend into the Baltic countries and Ukraine, right to Russia’s borders. We were treated like a defeated power. Those of us that wanted a close relationship with the U.S. have been labeled as ‘traitors.’ Even the man I was reporting to, the Secretary of Security Council Alexander Lebed, said that the agreement trampled our country’s dignity. In 1998, Lebed left Moscow. I was a pariah without any support; I did not have much of a choice but to retire and leave as well.” Mershov stops to catch his breath. His voice conveys dejected acceptance of the reality he does not like. “Back in ’91, I wanted to believe. Yeltsin on the tank, protecting democracy. The image is still with me. At the time, it made me trust that anything was possible. Did not know that Yeltsin was a hopeless drunk who sold a chance of greatness for a bottle of vodka.” Mershov’s voice breaks, then he recovers. “For centuries, Russia has been an Eastern country, the new Constantinople as the boyars called it. Peter the Great finally succeeded in opening the window to the West, pointing us in the new direction. We admired the West and wanted to be like them. And we were afraid of the West because in the last two centuries we suffered brutal incursions from there. Societies have memories, and we reach into them for a response. I am afraid the Russian pendulum will swing back East, to the new great powers rising there. I don’t really understand. I thought that once communism fell, Russia and America would be natural allies. What do we have to fight over? Instead, I feel like Peter’s window was slammed back into our faces. I don’t like it. But then, I am an old retired man. Nobody cares what I think.”

  Ivan and the boys are standing in front of a massive KV-1 tank when we returned.

  The older Mershov sweeps his arm. “In ’43, this was covered in snow. Your father asked me whether I had ever seen blood in the snow. How red it is…They had to go forward under heavy machine-gun fire, there was no air support that day. The person on his left got hit…then the one on his right. Your father kept crawling through the snow expecting a blow any second. In the 1960s, they lifted one square meter of the ground on the beachhead by the river. It had ten pounds of metal in it: fragments of bombs, shells, bullets. One square meter, ten pounds of deadly metal.”

  The drive back is quiet, but when we get close to the city Konstantin asks to visit the cemetery. “They buried your father so quickly, I found out two days after.” And so we drive to Piskariovskoye cemetery. We walk by the monument and Konstantin reads aloud the words written there: “Nobody is forgotten, nothing is forgotten.” He shakes his head: “Words, words…Too much have been forgotten already.”

  From memory, I manage to find father’s grave. No memorial stone yet, just a small marker. Ivan, Vitaly and Oleg stay respectfully in the back, as Konstantin lowers to his knees and places his hands on a small mound.

  “I met him in November of 1941. A lifetime. Goodbye, old friend.”

  His shoulders shake. The day is still full of light, warm, humid, windless. For the second time in two weeks, I am saying farewell to my father. The man I just started to get to know.

  I’ve been back for only a few minutes when there is a knock on the door.

  Anxious Mr. Zorkin is there. “Pavel Vladimirovich, I’ve gotten you access to the university’s archives, but you must go tomorrow morning.”

  “Why tomorrow morning?”

  “Because the person that will give you access will be leaving at two in the afternoon and won’t be back until the next week. Her name is Zinaida Petrovna Konyukhova; I wrote down the directions for you.”

  “All right, I will go see her tomorrow morning. Thank you.”

  “And Pavel Vladimirovich, I will have papers for you to sign tomorrow. There is one problem though: It’s difficult for me to raise a million dollars by Monday. It’s a lot of money, I am sure you understand.”

  I spread my arms theatrically. “Evgeny Antonovich, you told me you are a resourceful man!”

  “I am, and I’ve met quite a few rather unusual requests from you.” Zorkin bares his teeth.

  “That you did. And I have not only given you an exclusive deal here, I lowered the price by a very substantial amount. If you want more time, you can have it – but the price will rise.”

  Zorkin clearly would love nothing more than kill me on the spot.

  “Very well, Pavel Vladimirovich, I will do my best to gather the funds even if it costs me. But usually these things require an escrow of some sorts. How do you propose to handle this?”

  “If your friend Zinaida provides me with the access to the archives, I will sign the papers tomorrow but date them with a later date. If the money is not in my account on Monday, I’ll stop the transaction.”

  Zork
in is taken aback. “You will sign the papers tomorrow, even before the money is in your account?”

  I smile confidently. “Evgeny Antonovich, I am sure you researched me and know that my father-in-law is a well-known U.S. congressman. If you try to cheat me, you’d wish you were never born.”

  Sam Baker won’t lift a finger to help me, but Zorkin does not know that. His face turns slightly green. “Of course, I’ll make sure everything’s taken care of.”

  Finally, he is gone. I get the envelope that Andrei left for me. It contains a document, a dozen handwritten sheets of lined paper, and four old, cracked, black-and-yellowish white pictures. I recognize my father’s handwriting; these are the missing pages from the diary. The will is dated July 18, 2005. It is, as Andrei said, leaving the apartment to me. The Count of Monte Cristo and a bank account that as of July 17, 2005 had an equivalent of $2,172, go to Andrei.

  The pictures are of my parents and Andrei, all taken in front of the Bronze Horseman. In the oldest one, father is in the military uniform. His right arm is around my mother’s shoulders. She wears a light-colored dress. Her left arm is wrapped around my father’s waist. The boy in front is held in place by two hands, my father’s on one shoulder, my mother’s on the other. He looks very serious, while my parents are laughing. The next picture is similar, except father is in a militzia uniform and Andrei looks to be about twelve. In the third one, it’s Andrei who is in a soldier’s uniform. He and father are flanking, mother is in the middle. Mother is not smiling in this one, as if she has a premonition of what’s to come.

  In the last picture, they all are in civilian clothes. Mother is again in the middle, with father and Andrei on the sides. They all look like they are in their early forties. It must have been taken after Andrei came back from the first camp that aged him. In front of them there is a small boy, about two or three years old. I realize that it’s me.

  I am hungry, and I have to get out of the apartment. Not in the mood for long walks, I go downstairs to one of the restaurants on Malaya Sadovaya, find a table where there is enough light to read, place my order.

  I unfold the handwritten pages and organize them by date.

  26 November, 1941

  Three days ago, Mershov took me and Makar off the regular patrol and sent us to the Smolniy Institute, the headquarters of civil and military administration. They normally use the NKVD, not militzia, but they were short of people that week. Smolniy is carefully camouflaged and untouched by bombardment. Makar says under his breath: “Of course, the authorities are focused on protecting themselves, the rest of us be damned!” Then he looks at me and says “Don’t you repeat this.”

  We get stationed outside, by the door, together with an NKVD lieutenant Kulikov. He checks documents of the people coming in, we are supposed to hold our rifles at the ready. Not sure if they expect that German spies would storm the headquarters. At one point on the first day, the lieutenant accepted a parcel and told me to go inside and give it to Comrade Zhdanov, the party leader of Leningrad. I was stopped at the door to the office, questioned and sent in. A fat man was standing behind a big desk, screaming at the two officers standing in front of him: “I want to attack now! I don’t care that the Germans are dug in, send as many people as you have! We all have to make sacrifices! I don’t want to tell Comrade Stalin that we postponed the attack! Do it or I’ll send you in front of the firing squad!”

  At the end of the first day, the lieutenant told us: “Go inside, towards the Canteen No. 12. It’s a private eating area for top party officials. There is usually some food to be had by the door. But remember, don’t take anything out; they’ll shoot you!” Makar and I found the place. By the door, plates have been piled up, with unfinished meatloaf, mashed potatoes, pasta, cabbage. I stood there, hesitant to eat off dirty plates, but Makar whispered: “Don’t be an idiot, save your ration for your family.” And so I ate off someone’s plate with my hands, ignoring the looks of passersby. We did it for all three days and I was able to give my bread rations to my mother, Nastya, and Andrei.

  So that’s when he met Zhdanov for the first time. And now I understand who Kulikov is.

  30 November, 1941

  Mother left for the front the previous morning, as a part of a small orchestra. They went to perform for the troops that will try to break the siege. She told us not to worry, the musicians will be in the back, not in the line of fire. And they’ll get special rations, too.

  They were supposed to return last night, but she did not come home. I tried to reassure Nastya and Andrei, saying they have gotten delayed and she’ll be back tomorrow. It was just the three of us that night, with Andrei nestled between Nastya and I. Andrei was whimpering all night, with Nastya comforting him.

  I rushed to the militzia headquarters in the morning and asked Mershov to find out what happened. He switched Makar and I to patrol the area next to the headquarters. I kept checking with him every hour. When I came in for the third time, Ivan was sitting behind the desk, staring down at his hands. He spoke without looking at me, “They were right on the front line, seeing the soldiers off. The Germans are well-entrenched there, they had every inch covered with fire. It was a direct artillery hit. I am sorry, kid.”

  I started screaming, “That fat bastard! Sitting in a warm office, stuffing his face, sending people to death!”

  A sweaty hand clamped my mouth. It was Makar, holding me from behind, whispering in my ear. “Volodya, don’t! You have to stay alive!”

  The old curmudgeon held me in his arms until my sobs subsided.

  My grandmother was killed in one of those senseless, bloody frontal attacks that Zhdanov and his ilk concocted. She was sacrificed in order for the people in charge to report to Stalin that they are attacking.

  11 December, 1941

  Mershov called us into his office yesterday and told us to do a short patrol today, then report to a cinema in Sadovaya Street. We find there NKVD Lieutenant Kulikov, the same one that we worked with in Smolniy. It’s a fully functional theater, kept warm by its own heating system. Most importantly, there is plenty of food. Kulikov tells us that’s where party functionaries relax in the evening, bring their girlfriends and prostitutes. Our job is to watch the door, make sure that only the people that are supposed to be here can get in. After the show, the food gets packed away, but we can collect what’s left behind, what’s partially eaten. When the show ends, in my gas mask I collect bread, cakes, sausages, cheese. Makar hands me the choicest pieces.

  The city in the dark is dangerous, as gangs and cannibals come out at night. I walk with the rifle in my hands, to make me a less attractive target. It’s a scene from hell: sliver of the moon, skeletons of bombed out buildings, red glow from burzhuiki-set fires that nobody puts out. Snow sparks brilliantly in a cold, deep silence. Searchlights are sweeping the sky. I can see figures moving in the dark. Whenever anyone approaches, I lift the rifle to scare them away.

  I am tired, I have to stop. The shadows creep closer. Leningrad is the city of shadows now. I open and close the bolt of my rifle, sound echoing in still air. The shadows move back. I start walking again, counting steps. When I get home, I wake up Nastya and Andrei. I only let them eat a little bit, so they don’t get sick. With food, comes hope.

  28 December, 1941

  Andrei is not going to last much longer. I can see that he’s lost the will to live, he is just lying in bed silently, air wheezing in and out of his lungs. In desperation, yesterday I asked Mershov whether we can help the NKVD Lieutenant Kulikov in the Sadovaya cinema or in Smolniy.

  This morning, Mershov tells me to report to Smolniy. Kulikov is waiting for me there, we are to go with him and his boss to the airport to receive and distribute a food shipment for the families of the party officials. The giant city outside is starving, but nobody in Smolniy looks hungry. A truck picks us up, and we drive through a city in standstill. We get to unload boxes of food: ham, caviar, cheese, expensive wines. The truck takes us back to Smolniy. As I am about to leav
e, hungry and exhausted from the effort, Kulikov gives me a small package and reminds me to make sure to stop by Canteen No. 12.

  I don’t look inside the package until I get home. It’s a loaf of bread, three cans of ham, three jars of jams: boysenberry, strawberry, raspberry. Once home, Nastya boils the water, and we feed Andrei two pieces of bread with boysenberry jam. A touch of color comes into his face.

  I realize that the last entry was written right here, across the street. I look up at the apartment’s windows and try to imagine what it looked like in 1941.

  18 January, 1942

  Today, Makar and I patrolled the Haymarket. I asked to come here, wanted to trade a small jar of raspberry jam for a collection of toy soldiers for Andrei. Nastya thought it may lift his spirits.

  Thousands are dying daily from hunger and cold. But here, everything’s on sale. Warmly-dressed, healthy-looking, pitiless people sell bread, meat patties, and sausages to walking skeletons. A woman produces a wedding ring in a trembling hand to a tall man in a fur coat. He cuts a small piece of bread, “Here, that’s it.” She says, “I need more, it’s a gold ring. My child is dying.” The man is about to take the bread away when he sees Makar pulling a rifle off his shoulder. The man thrusts the bread in woman’s hand and scurries away with his packages. Some others start packing their wares. Makar breathes hard, I see that he wants to kill them all.

  “Where did they get all this when everyone is starving?” I ask.

  “Some work in the food supply chain, they steal,” snarls Makar. “Some kill people and turn their bodies into sausages and meat patties. All prey on others.”

  “That’s what we are, human predators,” I whisper.

  Makar looks at me. “Not all. You saved him, Volodya.”