Golechev: We committed a crime against the highest morals of the Communist Party but I’m devoted heart and soul to the Party and Comrade Stalin. I expect pitiless punishment for this but I throw myself upon the mercy of the Central Committee. At around 3:00 a.m., Comrade Satinov finally arrived and he behaved in an unprofessional manner, exposing his bourgeois sentimentality…
Stalin’s red crayon encircled this accusation and scrawled the words Satinov sympathy???
“So what happened? What did Satinov see?” asked Katinka, concentrating absolutely—no question had ever seemed so vital.
Satinov: She was completely…exposed. Commandant Golechev displayed depraved infantilism and corrupt philistinism, as I reported in person and on paper to the Instantzia. I confess that, while questioning Golechev, I struck him twice and he fell to the ground. This was due to my outrage as a good Communist, not any bourgeois sentimentality toward the Enemy.
Maxy whistled. “So whatever happened to Sashenka, it made Satinov, an iron man of that pitiless generation, lose control. How extraordinary—to have cracked up like that in front of those secret policemen could have signed his own death warrant then and there.”
“But what did he see?” Katinka realized she was actually shouting.
“Hang on…” Maxy went on reading. “Here.” He pointed at the bottom of the document. In the midst of a maze of green shading and squiggles, Stalin had written a word.
Hose.
“Hose? Have I misread it?”
Maxy shook his head. “I don’t think so…” He hesitated.
“But what does it mean?”
“I heard of a similar case at Vladimir Prison in 1937. I think they tied Sashenka to a post and turned the hose on her. She was naked. It was an unusually cold night. They took bets on how long it would take…the water to freeze. Gradually the ice encased her. Like a glass statue.”
28
Neither of them spoke for a long time. The finches serenaded them in the woods, bees danced around the cherry blossoms and the lilacs peeked their white and purple heads through the silvery birches.
As Katinka wept for the grandmother she’d never known, she thought of what Sashenka must have endured during that long, terrifying night in the cold winter of 1940. After a while, Maxy put his arms around her.
“What are we doing here?” she asked finally, slipping out of his arms.
“I did a little more research and found the burial records of Sashenka, Vanya, even Uncle Mendel. After execution, they were cremated and the ashes were buried in the grounds of an NKVD dacha in the birch woods just outside Moscow. Afterward, following NKVD orders on mass graves, raspberry canes and blackberry bushes were planted on the site. Look, there’s a plaque on the tree there.” He pointed.
Here lie buried the remains
of the innocent tortured and executed victims
of the political repressions.
May they never be forgotten!
“She’s here, isn’t she?” said Katinka, standing close to him. He put his arms around her again, and this time she didn’t object.
“Not just her,” he said. “They’re all here, together.”
Evening was falling—that rosy, grainy dusk when it seems as if Moscow is lit from below, not above—as Maxy dropped Katinka back at the Getman mansion. She stood on the steps and waved as he drove off.
When the guards admitted her the house was unusually hushed, but she found Roza in the kitchen.
“You need some chai and honeycakes,” said Roza, giving her a look. Katinka realized that her skin must be raw, and her eyes red. “Sit down.”
Katinka watched as Roza made the tea, adding honey and two teaspoons of brandy to each cup. Her aunt didn’t miss much, she thought.
“Here,” said Roza, “drink this. We both need it. Don’t worry about your father. I was rushing him too much. You know, I can still see that sturdy little boy with his beloved rabbit at our dacha. I’ve thought of him like that all my life and I’ve been aching to find him again—but of course, I don’t know him anymore. Will you tell me what to do?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Katinka, still reeling from what she had learned with Maxy, her mind stalked by visions of Sashenka’s death. She suddenly longed to share what she knew, to tell Roza everything, to work out exactly how death had come to Sashenka, how it had happened, and how she had looked—what Satinov had seen. “I’ve got something else to show you,” she said, drawing out a wad of photocopied papers from her backpack.
“Wait,” answered Roza. “Before I look at that, I want to ask you—I know my father was shot but you said there was something unusual…How did my mother die?”
“I was just about to come to that,” said Katinka but something made her keep the papers close to her.
She took a breath, eager to go on, but as she did so she saw Sashenka in the snow, her skin white in the electric glare of the searchlights…and Satinov, horrified, standing before Sashenka just minutes later. If he had really broken, if he hadn’t supervised the other 122 executions with Stalinist toughness immediately afterward, then he too would have been tortured until he revealed how he had rescued Sashenka’s children…
Katinka sensed Roza’s gentle but penetrating gaze on her, and she shook herself—there were some secrets she should keep.
She looked into Roza’s intelligent, violet eyes and saw that she was tensed, ready to absorb this blow too. Instead she took her hands. “Like the others. She died just like the others.”
Roza held her stare and then smiled. “I thought so. That’s good to know. But what were you going to show me?”
Katinka deftly put the investigation into Sashenka’s death at the back of her papers so that another document was on top. “I’ve got a few things I was given by Kuzma the archive rat, including this, your mother’s confession. I hadn’t read it in full because she gave them two hundred pages of crazy confessions of secret meetings with enemy agents and her plot to kill Stalin by spraying cyanide onto the gramophone at the dacha—all to give Satinov time to settle you and Carlo with your families. But there’s one bit that sounds strange. May I read it to you?”
Accused Zeitlin-Palitsyn: In 1933, as a reward from the Party for our work, Vanya and I were allowed to seek treatment for my neurasthenia in London. We visited a well-known clinic in Harley Street called the Cushion House, where, under cover of medical treatment, we met agents of the British secret service and Trotsky himself, who asked us to arrange the assassination of Comrade Stalin.
Interrogator Mogilchuk: At the Cushion House?
Accused Zeitlin-Palitsyn: Yes.
“This ‘Cushion House’ is an odd name, even in English,” explained Katinka. “I checked it. There’s never been a Cushion House anywhere in London, ever. Does it ring a bell?”