The Impossible Journey Read online

Outside the window we could see a torchlight procession winding along the Neva River to the Winter Palace.

  “What’s happening?” I asked.

  “The workers of Leningrad are marching to honor Kirov,” Papa explained.

  In their haste to burn the notebooks and letters, Mama and Papa forgot the time. It was nearly midnight when Georgi and I went to bed. Georgi fell asleep at once, but I was wide-awake listening to Mama and Papa’s whisperings, for they did not go to bed at all.

  It must have been two or three in the morning when there was a pounding on the door. I ran into the sitting room, Georgi just behind me. Three policemen burst in, filling the small room. One of the policemen had drawn a gun. What if we were all to be shot like the tsar and his family?

  “Mikhail Sergeyevich Gnedich,” the policeman with the gun said, “I have an order here for you and your wife. You are under arrest.”

  “On what charge?” Papa demanded. How brave Papa was to speak up to the man.

  “You will hear the charges at NKVD headquarters.”

  I was sick with fear. The NKVD were the secret police, hated by everyone. The soldiers paid no attention to Georgi and me but set about turning out drawers and pulling books out of the bookshelves. The whole apartment was falling apart around us. I saw a look of terror flash across Mama’s face as they emptied the drawer that held the locket. How I wished I could tell her that her secret was safe. But I never got the chance. My taking the locket had not been such a bad thing after all. The discovery of a picture of the tsar’s daughters would have been damning evidence that Mama and Papa were truly enemies of the people.

  Mama’s petticoats and Papa’s shirts lay on the floor. Mama’s sewing things were all in a heap. The apartment looked like some huge and hungry beast had been foraging for food. When everything had been torn apart, the men motioned to Mama and Papa to put on their coats. Papa did as he was bidden, standing stiff and silent. Mama dashed at us, sweeping us up in her arms. “Look after Georgi,” she whispered to me. A moment later Mama and Papa were gone.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE SEARCH

  Georgi’s cries brought our neighbor, Mrs. Zotov. Georgi wrapped himself around her and would not cease wailing.

  “Hush, Georgi. Both of you come with me. Quickly.” As she led us from the apartment, she gathered up some of Mama’s pots and pans and even took one of Mama’s petticoats and a shirt of Papa’s.

  Georgi would not let go of Mrs. Zotov and followed along, clinging to her. I was too frightened to move. She took my arm and pulled me after her. As soon as we were in the Zotovs’ apartment and Mr. Zotov had hastily bolted the door, I began to cry.

  “Hush,” Mrs. Zotov said. “Those policemen were from the NKVD. What if they come back? They must not know where you are. The Lord have mercy on your parents, but they brought it on themselves. I know about those meetings your papa and mama had. In a country like this there must be no going against the leader. You must be invisible, doing nothing to draw attention to yourself. See what their meddling has done. It has made you orphans.”

  Her words were terrible to me. “What do you mean, orphans? What will happen to Mama and Papa? I’m sure Papa had nothing to do with Comrade Kirov’s assassination.” I was trembling all over.

  Mr. Zotov patted me awkwardly on the head. “There, there. Of course he didn’t. Still, he was very foolish.”

  For a moment, thinking of how Mrs. Zotov had scooped up our belongings, I wondered if it had been the Zotovs who had accused my parents. The Zotovs were greedy busybodies, but I didn’t think they would betray Mama and Papa, and surely it was kind of them to take us in. Still, I didn’t trust them. First Svetlana had betrayed me and then the police had come. No one could be trusted.

  Georgi did not understand all that the Zotovs were saying, but he understood that they were saying things against Papa and Mama. He let go of Mrs. Zotov’s apron and leaned hard against me, clutching my arm. He began to wail again.

  Mr. Zotov tried to comfort him. “For now you can stay with us, though how we are to feed two more mouths I don’t know.”

  Georgi caught sight of the Zotovs’ bear cub in his cage. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve and asked, “Can I pet the bear?”

  “Yes, yes,” Mr. Zotov said.

  A moment later Georgi was on his knees, petting the bear and chattering to him as if Mama and Papa were safe in the next room. It was only later in the night, when Georgi awoke calling for Mama and Mama did not come, that he began to understand what had happened. Neither I nor Mrs. Zotov could comfort him. I wanted to cry too, but I was the older sister. At last Mr. Zotov, much against his wife’s wishes, opened the bear cub’s cage. And Georgi, with his arm around the sleeping cub, finally closed his eyes.

  The next day was a Sunday. Though Sundays were workdays in the Soviet Union, Mama, Papa, Georgi, and I would get up early and put on our best clothes. We would sneak through the alleys to one of the few churches in Russia where services were still allowed. Afterward as a special treat we would have jam with our bread and a spoonful of butter in our kasha. On this Sunday morning there was no mention of church. After Mr. Zotov left with the bear cub, Mrs. Zotov said, “I suppose we had better take the things that are left in your apartment before someone else gets them.”

  I stared at her, feeling a terrible coldness, as if I were turning to ice from my toes up. “What will Mama and Papa do when they get home and there is nothing left?” I asked, afraid of the answer.

  Mrs. Zotov would not meet my look. “It will be a while before they return,” she said. “In the meantime someone else could grab the apartment and everything in it.” As I continued to stare at her, her face became very red. She snapped at me, “I am sure your folks would not want strangers to have their things.” With a smug look she added, “If we take you in, those things will be needed.” But she made no further move toward our apartment.

  I resolved to die of hunger and cold before I lived with such a vulture. I grabbed my coat and went flying down the stairway. Mrs. Zotov called after me, and Georgi cried for me to come back. All I could think of was finding Mama and Papa. Suddenly I knew what I must do. I called up the hallway, “I’m going to NKVD headquarters.”

  Mrs. Zotov’s shout—“You are crazy!”—was the last thing I heard.

  Once out on the street I lost my courage. The police were on every corner. I did not see how I was to find the strength to go anywhere near the NKVD. People always spoke of of the NKVD in a whisper. When people passed the wooden building that was its headquarters, they crossed to the other side, keeping their heads down and hurrying by. The official title of the NKVD was People’s Commissariat of Internal Affairs. Everyone knew that they were evil men who could swoop down to arrest someone. That someone would never be heard from again.

  Then I thought of Mama and Papa and Mrs. Zotov emptying our apartment. I would plead with the NKVD, convincing them that Mama and Papa were good people and innocent of anything bad. I would tell them how no one loved Russia more than Mama and Papa did. I had taken only a step or two when Georgi burst out of the apartment, begging me to wait for him. He held his cap between his teeth. One arm was in and the other arm out of his coat sleeves.

  “She stole things from our apartment. I won’t stay with her. She’ll steal us from Mama and Papa.”

  “Georgi, please go inside. The place I’m going to is dangerous.” Though I pleaded with him, I knew how stubborn Georgi could be.

  “If it’s dangerous, you won’t come back,” Georgi said. “You’ll disappear like Mama and Papa.”

  He began to wail. A policeman was walking toward us. “Georgi,” I whispered, desperate to avoid the policeman’s attention, “if you stop that crying, I’ll take you along.”

  Georgi was quiet, but the policeman kept coming. I saw with relief that he was young, no more than nineteen or twenty. His collar was turned up and the earflaps of his cap pulled down against the cold. He looked from Georgi to me.

  “Why is the
boy crying?” he asked.

  “He’s hungry. There is no food at home. I was just going to get him some bread.”

  Georgi, who never lost a chance for a performance, turned his large blue eyes upon the soldier and gave him a pitiful look.

  The policeman shrugged. “I think all the stores are still closed, but have a look.” He walked away.

  We passed other policemen, but with Georgi’s hand in mine we didn’t appear suspicious and we weren’t stopped again. It was a chilly two miles to NKVD headquarters, and all the way there my teeth chattered, not from cold but from fear. Would someone even talk with me, and if they did, what was I to say to them? What if they put Georgi and me in jail as well as Mama and Papa? I was desperate to see Mama and Papa again, but what if they had already been sent away? People who were arrested were often shipped to Siberia. Everyone knew of someone who had disappeared without a trace. Or worse, what if they had been executed? My hands were shaking so, I had to let go of Georgi and put them in my pockets. I still had the locket! Suppose they searched me? I thought of throwing it away, yet I couldn’t, for I knew how precious it was to Mama.

  Two soldiers with machine guns stood at the entrance of the secret police headquarters. “Georgi,” I whispered, “you are not to say a word.” He nodded his head, and I felt his hand tighten on my arm.

  As I approached, the taller of the two soldiers leveled his machine gun at me. Terrified, I turned and ran, pulling Georgi with me. When I thought I had reached a safe distance, I stopped and looked back. The soldiers were laughing. The one who had leveled the gun at us was beckoning to me.

  I didn’t move. He called to Georgi.

  “Come here, little son, and I’ll let you look at my gun.”

  Before I could stop him, Georgi broke away from me and ran to the soldier. I was right behind him. “Georgi, come back.”

  “I meant no harm,” the tall soldier said. “I was only having a little fun. Now, tell us what you are doing here. This is no place for children.” The soldier had a little patch on his face like Papa’s when he cut himself shaving.

  Forgetting all about his promise to be silent, Georgi said, “You have taken away my mama and papa.”

  The second soldier—whose cap was too large for him, nearly covering his ears—said, “Not us. We stand here all day. We never move. The men who took your parents are inside, and they won’t talk with babies.”

  Georgi kicked the soldier’s shin. “I’m not a baby,” he said.

  Horrified, I pulled him back. “He didn’t mean it,” I hastily apologized.

  “Yes, I did,” Georgi insisted.

  The tall soldier was laughing again. “I don’t know about your mama and papa, my boy, but you’ll make a fine revolutionary. Go inside if you like, but I warn you. Don’t kick Comrade Yakir in the shins, or you will end up in Siberia.” Then he gave Georgi a little push toward the entrance of the building.

  Holding my breath, I followed Georgi in. A woman who reminded me of Comrade Tikonov sat before a door like a dragon guarding a cave. She was busy with some papers. Looking up, she glowered at us. “You are in the wrong place,” she said. “You can have no business here.” I would not have been surprised if she had breathed fire.

  I stood very straight and said in a firm voice, “I am here to see Comrade Yakir.” I added, “I was sent to see him.” In a way that was true, for the soldiers had said, “Go inside.”

  She folded her lips into a straight line and looked very strict, but she did not tell us to leave. That we had been sent suggested an order from someone, and orders must be carried out. She waited as if she hoped after a moment we might disappear and solve her problem. When we didn’t, she got up from her desk.

  “This way.” She led us down a corridor dark as a tunnel.

  Georgi and I clasped hands and followed her. I was holding my breath. Georgi was humming softly, like he always does when he’s nervous.

  She tapped lightly on a door and waited. A hoarse voice called out, “Don’t pound on the door. Come in.”

  “Comrade Yakir, these…” She looked at us, unwilling to say she was bringing children in to see him. “These people say they have been sent to see you.” She hurried from the room.

  With his fat stomach, little pop eyes, and great semicircle of a mouth that was the shape of a smile but wasn’t a smile, the man behind the desk looked like a giant frog.

  “Sent here! Who sent you here? I don’t talk with children!”

  Before he could throw us out, I said, “We’ve come to find out where you have taken our parents.”

  His eyes seemed to pop out even more. “So that’s it. You are the brats of those who oppose the revolution and side with the assassin of Comrade Kirov. We are turning the whole city upside down to catch such people. I have no time to waste on you.”

  He was about to call for the dragon when Georgi, his face very red and his hands folded into fists, shouted, “You look like a frog and I hope someone steps on you!”

  The frog jumped up. “I’ll tell you where your parents are, where we have taken all those responsible for Comrade Kirov’s death. To the Kresti Prison, and I hope they stay there until they rot. Now get out of here before I send you there as well!”

  In a second we were past the dragon and the two soldiers and out on the sidewalk running as fast as we could.

  It was several blocks before we stopped to catch our breath. “Where are we going?” Georgi asked.

  “To the Kresti Prison,” I answered.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE KRESTI PRISON

  There were tales of people who had disappeared, never to be heard from again. I would not allow that to happen to Mama and Papa. I had to know where they were. I didn’t care what happened to me. Somehow I had to convince whoever was holding Mama and Papa to let them go. I had to make them believe that Mama and Papa would not assassinate a fly, much less Comrade Kirov.

  “They’ll keep us at the prison,” Georgi wailed.

  “No they won’t. I am going to find Mama and Papa, Georgi, but first I’ll take you back to the apartment.”

  “And leave me there?” Georgi asked.

  “Yes, while I go to the Kresti.”

  Georgi got his stubborn look. “I don’t want to stay there by myself. What if you don’t come back? Mrs. Zotov won’t give me anything to eat but boiled cabbage.”

  I saw that Georgi would not back down without a scene, which would surely attract attention. “If I let you come with me, you must promise to keep quiet. You’re not to get us into more trouble.”

  As we crossed the city, I was relieved to see that the streets were filling up. In the crowds we would go unnoticed. People were gathered around the billboards where the Leningrad newspaper, the Leningradskaya Pravda, was posted. The headline read KIROV ASSASSINATED. The newspaper said that the assassin, Leonid Vasilevich Nikolaev, a thirty-year-old man, had been caught. The people around us read silently, not speaking to one another. Though I could find no mention of other arrests in the newspaper, news of such arrests must be getting around, making everyone afraid.

  The NKVD headquarters had looked like a house, while the Kresti looked like a prison. Much as I wanted to find Mama and Papa, I could not get up enough courage to go inside. Here there were no soldiers standing guard, for surely no one would want to break into such a place; it was a place that people went into but did not come out of. I was ready to turn back to the apartment. Even Mrs. Zotov was not as sinister as the sight of the huge building looming in front of us.

  Georgi asked, “Are Mama and Papa really in there?”

  I nodded.

  “I want to see them. Mama needs to mend the hole in my sweater, and she promised to make blini for our Christmas Eve dinner, and Papa is going to buy me a present.”

  I tried to think of a plan, but any plan seemed foolish, so I took a deep breath and marched through the door.

  A soldier, his face unshaven, his tunic unbuttoned, his cap pushed to the back of his head, l
ooked up at us. I could see he was about to send us away.

  Boldly I said, “Comrade Yakir at NKVD headquarters sent us here. He said you were to help us to see our parents.” Half the phones in Leningrad did not work, and those that did took forever to complete a call. I was betting that so sloppy-looking a soldier would not bother to check on what I was saying.

  For a moment the soldier’s hand wandered to the phone; then he shrugged and pushed a thick sheaf of papers toward me. “Fill these out,” he ordered.

  I looked at all the fine print and my heart sank. To get a little time to think, I said, “I have no pen.”

  He hunted about for a pen, which he reluctantly handed to me, keeping an eye on it all the while I was writing, as if I were there only to steal his pen. There were questions about the addresses of all the places we had lived and birthdates of everyone in the family. I could only guess at many of the answers, but I tried to look as if I knew what I was writing.

  Georgi was watching me impatiently. As I scratched away, he announced, “I can read and write. Why can’t I write on those papers too?”

  At that the soldier’s face grew stern. “Hurry up. This is not a kindergarten. I have better things to do. I don’t know what Comrade Yakir was thinking of. I’ve a mind to call him and tell him so.” But still he didn’t make the call. I think he believed that we would never have been so foolish as to risk coming there unless we had some influence with the authorities. It made no difference that our parents had been arrested; important people were arrested all the time. He must have reasoned that our parents might be let go, and if he did not do what he was told, they would make trouble for him.

  After giving the pages I had filled out a quick look, the soldier motioned us to follow him. We were taken to a small room with a cement floor, no window, and a steel door. The room was bare of everything but two chairs, one on either side of a table. Empty as the room appeared, it pressed in on me until I felt I was being crushed, my whole body weighed down with things I imagined might have happened in that room. I didn’t know what those things were, but their poison crept from the corners and filled the room. The ghosts of all the people Stalin had arrested were in that room. Georgi must have felt it too, for he left the other chair vacant and edged close to me.