The balance of their relationship had shifted — he 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 assembly line, while his mother, who spent her days stitching parachutes, had been given a similar rise in status. He’d improved their access to food — no longer did they have to queue for several hours for basics such as bread and buckwheat; instead they were given access to the 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 substituted 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 city — a low-rise block where each apartment could boast of private washroom facilities and its own small balcony overlooking a small stretch of grass 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 fruit — the 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 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 apron.
— 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 document and her name is on it. If I defend Raisa I’m contesting the validity of a State document. 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 spy — this vet — was 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 association.