BOOK I by Genevieve Roland Read Free Book Online

I sought to destroy institutions."
    "What does that mean?" snapped the Deputy Assistant Procurator in annoyance.
    "It is a line written by the American poet Walter Whitman."
    "It doesn't help your case to be quoting an American poet."
    "He is considered to be very progressive," the Potter said sarcastically.
    The Deputy Assistant Procurator pushed a paper across the table toward the Potter, and held out a ball-point pen. "Sign your full name at the bottom to indicate you are familiar with the contents."
    The Potter accepted the pen and looked down at the paper. It was all a mistake, of course. He had served the state too long and too well to be accused now of swiping the odd bit of clothing or an occasional lipstick from the American warehouse. Compared to some of his colleagues or superiors, the Potter's acquisitions had been extremely modest; a senior section chief had once trucked out painters and carpenters and electricians employed by the Center and set them to work rebuilding his dacha, and nobody had uttered a word. The Potter forced himself to focus on the paper. Over "Name of accused" someone had typed in "Feliks Arkantevich Turov." So it wasn't a mistake after all. Over "Race" it said "Jew." In what sense is a Jew always, ever a Jew? Piotr Borisovich had once laughingly asked, and then, suddenly serious, he had answered his own question: In the sense that every ten or twenty years, the state will go out of its way to remind him. But why was the state, which in the Potter's experience never did anything haphazardly, choosing this particular moment to remind him of his racial roots? And why was the state suddenly concerned with his penny-ante pilfering?
    "I haven't got. eh, all morning," said the burnt-out Deputy Assistant Procurator, who had precisely that.
    The Potter reached down and scratched his signature across the bottom of the sheet, acknowledging that criminal proceedings had been opened against him; acknowledging also that his life, or what was left of it, was spiralling out of control.
    Svetochka turned up the volume on the radio so that their neighbors couldn't eavesdrop. "What did he want?" she demanded, though she could tell by his face that she might be better off if she didn't know.
    "They are looking into irregularities," the Potter said vaguely. He would never survive a strict-regime labor camp; if he were tied up to the pier of old age now, imagine what he'd be in ten years. And if, by some miracle, he lived through it, Svetochka certainly wouldn't be waiting for him when he got out.
    "What kind of irregularities?"
    The Potter gripped his glass of tea in both hands to warm his fingers.
    "There was some pilfering at the warehouse while I was the novator."
    Lipsticks, makeup, earrings, perfume, cigarettes, cigarette lighters, underwear, nylon stockings, records, cinema magazines, once a dress, once a pair of women's blue jeans, all manufactured in America, had disappeared.
    "How can they prove it was you who took them?" Svetochka asked.
    "When they are at the appropriate stage of the investigation," the Potter said numbly, "you will tell them."
    Svetochka reacted as if she had been slapped across the face. "How can you bring yourself to say such a thing? Svetochka would never do anything to hurt her Feliks."
    "You will be offered the opportunity to save yourself," the Potter explained with a calmness he didn't feel. "You will hesitate long enough to convince yourself of your loyalty to me, but in the end you will do what has to be done."
    "Oh, Feliks," she cried. "You can't let them do this to Svetochka."
    The words seemed to echo through the Potter's head. To Svetochka! He would lose his pension and wind up in a strict-regime labor camp for ten years, and they were doing this to her. Stirring a spoonful of jam into his tea, he smiled grimly.
    "You must give them what they want, Feliks."
    He shook his head. "I am in a difficult position," he said. "I am not yet sure who wants what."
    Svetochka