Major Kruzenko summons us for a pre-operation briefing, reviewing the names and faces we’ll be seeking out tonight. She wears not her usual green KGB uniform, but some tiered, pink monstrosity trimmed in floppy lace. She’s positively radiant as she warns us about our targets’ potentially dangerous, treasonous thoughts.
The van deposits us a few blocks from the conservatory, and we must trudge through the snow past a long line of old women, shivering in their threadbare coats. The building they are lined up for reads “Pharmacy.” I think of Mama and her makeshift clinic. She helped so many in our neighborhood who couldn’t have gotten to the State clinics on time. But I also know our supplies had been smuggled or stolen from state-owned pharmacies like this one, which only meant a longer wait for these old women who follow the rules. I turn my head away from them, as if they might somehow recognize my shame.
Red velvet banners frame the conservatory entrance, and its already ornamental fa?ade has been further spangled with bronze sickles and hammers and sparkling stars of crystal. We slush through the snowbanks to the staircase, and Major Kruzenko promptly loses us in the press of fur-clad partygoers that carry us up into the entrance. I can sense her, though, at the back of my mind; Pavel and our other guardians never feel far enough away.
Inside the main atrium, we are greeted with even more red bunting and a massive bronze statue of Vladimir Lenin. He is midstride and holds one hand out before him as if testing for rain. Perhaps it’s just the sculptor’s doing, but there’s something too crooked in his grin, too assured; his eyes are unfocused and his legs seem too long for his body. I am glad when the crowd—suddenly radiant with heat as they shed their fur coats—sucks us into the next room.
Where is the food? I’m starving.
I can’t believe Natasha got invited to the second-best party. I’ve done that bitch’s work for years …
Oh, great, here comes Boris with another glass of vodka. I’d better stay sober.
Aren’t those Rostov’s kids? Better keep my thoughts to myself. What was that trick he showed me…?
My gaze follows the last as he drifts past us with a smile that never dims. He wears a trim, well-pressed suit, but something about his gait and his hair suggests KGB. I file away his face in case I need to remember him.
Others’ thoughts build around me frantically as I push deeper into the hall, searching for Larissa—I know she’s probably working with Ivan, but I don’t want to work on my own. The negative remarks and ugly fears are like splinters pricking my skin each time I brush against someone; they twist into me, impossible to wrench free. These are the nomenklatura, and they have everything and yet they worry over money, love, work; their lives just like the rest. I wrap my arms tight across my chest, hoping that if I make myself small enough, people will stop brushing against me, wrinkling my gown, leaving their nasty little thoughts behind.
A hand closes around my shoulder with a familiar tune. “Hello, gorgeous. That’s a good color for you.”
I spin around to face Sergei. He smiles and scrubs at his hair, like he’s a little kid about to charm his way out of a scolding. Well, I won’t give him the satisfaction. I shrug his hand off of me and turn away.
“Yul, wait. Please.”
And there it is, that pitiful twinge in his voice like a kicked puppy. I stand still, not facing him, and wind Shostakovich tight around my thoughts.
“I know you think I owe you an apology. And—and you’re right, I probably do. But I—”
“Probably?” I hiss, trying to keep my voice down.
He takes a deep breath. “Sorry. I’m no good at this. Let me try again. I know you think I betrayed your trust by telling them that I saw you take the key—”
“Oh,” I say. “So that’s what happened.”
I turn back again, and his face is completely wilted, his smile drooping. “It wasn’t just me,” he says, voice pitiful. “Larissa saw it, too. She saw that now that you had the key, there was a high chance you’d make a run for it when the opportunity presented itself—so they made sure it did.”
So my entire escape had been orchestrated from the start. I want to be furious, but the more complicated the situation becomes, the less I know what to feel. I study his rumpled tuxedo, twisted awkwardly around his sturdy frame. The sleeves are too short for his long arms, so his forearms creep out whenever he moves. “I’ll let Larissa speak for herself.”
“I just want you to know I did it to keep you safe, Yulia. If you had gotten caught by the Americans and gotten your thoughts scrubbed out—or worse—and I could have prevented it…” The smile dies. “Well, I never would have forgiven myself.”
I let Shostakovich harden around me. A protective shell. “Well, I’m glad your conscience will be clean.”
“So…” He extends his hand toward me, holding it more like a question than a handshake. “Truce?”
“We’ll see,” I say.