Good People by Nir Baram Page A

narrow cell, where she had been forced to stand up, on her own, for many days, unable to tell day from night, into the interrogation room, where theysat her down—though sometimes they punished her by making her stand there too—for eight-hour sessions, and then another hour, demanding again and again that she tell the story of her life, name names, confess.
    Sasha understood that her father was already mourning for Nadya. In recent years he had grown weaker, as if he no longer believed in anyone’s ability to decide his own fate. If it was up to him, he would have already held a memorial ceremony for her.
    He had only dragged her to Nadya’s house once. She must have been around twelve. The poet was ill. She had been in bed for weeks, and her father went to her tiny, unheated room every day. Sasha felt as if someone was shoving her nose into a bottle of oil. Tangled in her bedding, Nadya whined that her body was betraying her, that two old women and four children were living with her in the apartment and torturing her, that Emma Feodorovna was smearing her with oil as if she were the axle of a wagon.
    Her father pulled the blanket off and wiped away her perspiration. Sasha turned around and stared at the wall. Nadya kept complaining: no one came to visit, a person was ill for a few days and everyone had her in the grave already, her back ached from the treachery of her friends. ‘Look at me, girl!’ she shouted at Sasha. ‘You’re the only one who won’t betray me!’
    Sasha turned around and watched her father kiss her eyes and forehead, purring endearments. He fed her beef soup from the cafeteria at the institute. Sasha could see how he came to life around this woman. When Nadya became drowsy, her father kissed her hand, pressed it to his heart and consoled her with stories about all the influential people whom her poetry had moved. Soon she would receive a special grant, Brodsky was terribly impressed and was going to write a review.
    Now Sasha stretched her legs, which had fallen asleep, and paced her room. She stopped at her desk, and in the dim light from the living room sorted the slips of paper on which she’d written her tasks for the coming week. Everything seemed boring, especially the interview herfriend Zhenya had arranged for a job taking shorthand. Her mother railed at her for never getting through more than a quarter of her tasks. But her mother didn’t understand anything. Naturally if she had an interesting job like Brodsky, who wrote about books in the newspaper, or even like Zhenya, who translated articles into English for the foreign news section of Leningradskaya Pravda , she would work day and night.
    She went back to the door. Silence reigned in the living room. Her father sat bent over, wearily drumming on his knees. There would be no salvation from Andrei Weissberg. Now everyone turned to Vladimir Morozovsky, who had not said a word. Morozovsky worked in a car repair shop, mainly for high-ranking officials. He loved poetry, and loved talking about poetry with poets even more, no matter if he bored them. ‘No, no one said anything. I asked a friend who is a member of certain institutions, and whose circle includes men whose influence is not to be sneezed at—’
    ‘And what did he say?’ Emma broke in.
    ‘He said that there are no rumours, and that’s usually the worst sign.’ Morozovsky shrugged and spread his huge hands. People joked that in a single fist he could hold Weissberg’s and Brodsky’s heads and all the women who had slept with them.
    ‘There was a reason to arrest Nadya,’ Levayev said, adopting a serious expression. ‘More and more sabotage networks are being discovered. Loyal citizens must remain vigilant and help the authorities uncover the truth.’
    ‘You, Andreyusha,’ Emma said to Sasha’s father with a mischievous look, ‘were the closest of all to Nadka, even at night. You must have some idea why she was arrested.’
    No one dared look at Valeria as