Sergei shakes his head. “They shouldn’t have done that. If the secretary finds out—and he will—”
“They’re going to cancel KVN.” Larissa stands; kicks the television console. The sickle and hammer warp on the screen before settling. “And those stupid men will be shot and it wasn’t even that funny. Stupid, stupid, senseless. Everything is senseless!”
Larissa thuds out of the lounge, and her boots slam against the staircase. I hesitate for a second, wanting to follow her, if only for an excuse not to be left alone with Sergei. But then I have waited too long, and the moment has passed. The screen is still the sickle and hammer image, and the national anthem blasts through the lounge. One of the guards steps forward and turns down the volume knob on the TV. I stare hard enough at my book that I think I could set it on fire. I try to fill my mind with other songs. Valya’s songs.
“So,” Sergei says. His knee bounces fiercely against mine.
“So,” I say.
He laces his fingers together. “I was given tickets to the Spartak game on New Year’s. They’re playing Dinamo.”
“Sounds fun for you,” I say.
He catches his knee in his tangled hands. “I didn’t know if you liked … If you’d maybe want to go…”
Now I’m the one with the Russian shrug of defeat. How easily I can slip into the life the KGB has constructed for us. Taking entrance exams for Moscow State, going to hockey games. Just when I’m ready to surrender to it, Valentin and Mama spark that vile flame of hope. “I … I wouldn’t feel right. I don’t want—”
“No. No, I get it.” He tangles his fingers in his hair, making a fist. “You still won’t admit this is your life. Well, guess what, Yulia. You don’t belong anywhere else!” he laughs, cold and dry. “You think you can function out there, knowing what you are? Maybe you can be a factory girl, queen of the gossip hive because you can peek at your friends’ thoughts on the assembly line. But it’ll drive you crazy.”
“And who’s to say it won’t drive us crazy in here? Look at Larissa, losing her head over a TV show. Or Anastasia—I know all about that,” I say.
He smirks. “Do you? Are you sure about that?”
“I know enough.” I stand, tucking my book under my arm. “I don’t need you lecturing me.”
“But you’re so caught up in what you think your life should have been that you’re not living it the way it is!” He stands, too, towering over me. “I’m trying to protect you, don’t you see? But I can’t do it forever.”
“Enough, already! I’d rather take my chances than have you constantly trying to save me!” I stumble back from him. The ridges of the bookshelf, tacky with cheap paint, press into my spine.
“You’re vulnerable to sycophants like Masha. Dangerous revolutionaries like Valentin. He’ll get us all killed with his scheming, but he’s never let that stop him before.”
“Keep your voice down,” I hiss, but the guards are already watching us. We’re certainly more interesting than the static logo on TV.
“Valya’s plans would cost us our lives, when we have so much to give. I say we ignore it all and live a true Russian life as best as we can while dealing with this—this curse.” His voice drops low. Pulled taut. “But lately, your thoughts sound just like Valentin’s.”
The front door bangs open. Sergei and I look at each other—a threat to finish this later—and charge for the stairs. Larissa is already flying down them, her sloppy braid airborne behind her. Realization hardens and calcifies in my gut. Why she’s upset today. She knows something. She knows.
Kruzenko, Rostov, and a rash of uniformed KaGeBezniks swarm the foyers, crowding around a long, flat object. A stretcher. The lump on it moves—there is a person on it, bundled in blankets, but I’m not hearing any thoughts, even though I’m close enough that I should be hearing something. Something is horribly wrong. There are too many bodies and not enough voices. A black emptiness on the stretcher where someone’s thoughts should be. My chest constricts; my pulse rings too loudly in my ears. Bozhe moi. Please don’t let it be Valentin.
“Into the dining room. Quickly, quickly, poshli. The doctor will be here soon. You—bring in the other boys.” Kruzenko herds them out of the foyer and the doors slam shut.
Larissa curls around the banister, boneless, but her face is oddly serene. “What’s happened?” I ask, fighting to keep my voice calm. Her eyes, usually brilliant blue, look dead. They’re just fixed on the closed dining room door. I want to shake her, bring her back to life.
She unhooks herself from the railing. “Ivan,” she says. Her tone is hollowed out. “He’s been scrubbed.”
And she slinks back up the staircase, with no shock, no surprise, no panic, nothing at all.
CHAPTER 31