—
FOR SEVERAL DAYS THERE was no light in the stairwell. It seemed to Florence that every few weeks the naked bulb in their building’s entry got unscrewed and stolen, either by the inhabitants or by the courtyard adolescents. After a while, the housing committee simply ceased replacing it. The February nights were long and she had to maneuver her way home through the courtyard in grainy darkness. This evening, with the shadows of the trees darkening the entrance further, her only means of navigation was touching her toe to the snow-crusted footpath. She managed warily, clutching her two string bags of groceries and regretting having gone out so late to the outdoor market to buy the bruised vegetables that were sold off cheaply at the end of the day. She crossed the threshold of the vestibule, her eyes still unadjusted to the near-perfect gloom. Florence stopped. Inside the vestibule’s damp cavern, she had a sense she was not alone. She strained to hear what she’d thought was the rasping of a shoe, a breath. But in the predatory stillness could be heard only her own shallow, frightened breathing. No, she had not been mistaken. Whoever was lurking at the edge of the darkness had chosen this moment to break his inertness and move toward her.
She sought an escape—the door or else the stairs—but could not tell which way was which. The person was clutching her arm. An instinctive spasm took hold of her: the string bag full of onions in her free hand traced an arc in the air like the shot of a medieval mace. Her scream broke the breath-heavy silence and she lashed again with her bag of onions at the intruder. She felt him let go of her arm and she scrambled as fast as she could, falling up and over the first two stairs until she was able to grip the railing and lift herself up to the first landing.
It was then that Florence heard the whimper. She glanced down, and there, in a streak of weak moonlight, she saw the lean figure crumpled at the bottom of the stairs.
“Seldon?”
A groan.
Her footsteps clattered back down the stairs. “Oh heavens, have I hurt you?”
“My gut will recover. Not sure about my pride.” He had on a fur cap with the ear flaps pulled down.
“Why didn’t you say it was you?”
“I might have, if you hadn’t belted me with that sack of…what are these?”
“Our dinner.” On her hands and knees Florence tried to pat around for the onions that had rolled away.
“Leon told me not to come strolling in unannounced anymore. I said I would be down here at half past seven. I’ve been standing here for close to an hour.”
Now Florence remembered her own directive to Leon. “I left him with Yulik. He must have forgotten,” she said guiltily.
Seldon held what loose onions he’d found as, half limping, he followed Florence up the stairs. She fit the key into the lock and opened the door to the common hall. No one was in the corridor, thank goodness. A light was burning in the kitchen, at the corridor’s end. Someone was there, clinking pans and pots. Seldon set his load down and began to slip off his boots.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t bother!” she hissed.
She ought to have said nothing at all, because just then Essie stuck her head out and peered into the corridor. Her apron was dusted with flour.
“Florence! Just who I want to see.”
“You’re up late baking,” she said, trying with all her power to sound like a person whose nerves were not flayed and raw.
“I completely forgot that I promised to make a napoleon torte for one of the girls at work. She’s leaving on maternity. And I ran out of condensed milk. Oh, hello, Seldon,” Essie said, spotting him by the cloak rack. Her eyes squinted suspiciously behind her slightly flour-dusted glasses. “Haven’t seen you here in a while.”
“Good evening, Essie.”
To Florence she said, “You wouldn’t have a can of the condensed stuff in your cupboard?”
“I’ll take a look.”
Florence tried to hide her impatience as she looked for the condensed milk, with Essie waiting in the doorway. Standing on a chair, she felt around on the top shelf where she kept the dry foods, macaroni, sugar, soap. Yulik was turning in his cot, sleeping fitfully. Seldon had joined Leon, and the two were lighting cigarettes by the window, which they’d cracked open. She found the can and gave it to Essie.
“You saved me. I’ll get you two cans next week.”
“One will do.”
“Well, then.” She looked around and smiled wanly at the men. “Ciao.”
Florence dropped the hook in the eye and latched the door. They were all aware of the child asleep, and talked quietly. There was a new development in the plan Seldon had worked out with Hank Kelly, the man from the embassy, who had promised to help him. There was to be a party in about seven weeks for all of the embassy staff and their families, at a lodge in the village of Uspenskoye, where some of the foreign embassies apparently had their dachas. To this rural outing, the embassy staffs would be shuttled by turns in official cars. Kelly predicted that, with so many guests being ferried and some of the drivers off duty, he would be able to take the wheel of his own car as a volunteer driver. On the afternoon of the party, they would all dress in their best clothing—“your Sunday finest”—and take a trolley out as far as they could to the station of Usovo, and wait there for Kelly to pick them up in his automobile on the way from Uspenskoye. He would drive them back to the embassy compound. Kelly would provide them with the names of several embassy workers, including an actual staff couple and their child. Kelly’s official ID should suffice at the security point. Once everyone was behind the safety of the embassy walls, an appeal on their behalf could begin.
“But what if the guards stop us and ask for documents?”
Kelly had told Seldon that it was unlikely that the guard would check anyone’s papers but his. If, however, theirs were requested, Seldon and Florence were to begin arguing like a married couple, in the queen’s best English, about who had been entrusted to bring the family’s documents.
“Speak like you have a fat plum in your mouth and they’ll never suspect you’re not English,” he advised her.
“What about Yulik?”
“Best that he not say a word. Dress him in a foppy little sailor suit. Something starched and fresh. That goes for the rest of us. Flora, get a new dress made if you have to, and buy new shoes.”
“Shall I get a set of tails?” Leon said with a sense of doom. But Seldon did not blanch at this. “Some fresh trouser braces and a new hat would be advisable,” he said, then added, “Now, listen to me carefully. You are to pack only the essentials. A day bag. No suitcases.”