dropped to his knees. His hands trembled as he pulled the string free. Inside was a box. The top of the box was marked: NOT FOR PRESS
He lifted the lid. There were no photographs. Instead, there was a stack of neatly printed pages, a substantial document, over a hundred pages long. On the top rested an accompanying letter. He picked it up, scanning the words. It wasn’t addressed to him: it was an official State letter declaring that this speech was to be distributed to every school, every factory, workers and youth group up and down the country. Confused, he put the letter down, taking up the speech. He read the first page carefully. He began shaking his head. This couldn’t be true. It was a lie, a malicious fabrication, intended to drive him insane. This could never have been published by the State: they would never distribute such a document. It was impossible.
INNOCENT VICTIMS TORTURE
These words couldn’t exist in black and white, printed, State-sanctioned, distributed to every school and factory. When he caught the perpetrator of this hoax, this well-informed hoax, he’d have them executed.
Involuntarily Nikolai scrunched up the page he was reading and tossed it aside. He began to tear at the next page, and the next, ripping them into shreds, tossing the scraps aside. He stopped, bending forward, curling into a ball, his head resting on the unread pages, muttering to himself:
– It can’t be true.
How could it be? But it was here, with a State-stamped letter, containing information only the State would know, with sources, quotes, references. The conspiracy of silence, which Nikolai had presumed would last forever, was over. It was no trick.
The speech was real.
Nikolai stood up, leaving the papers scattered. He unlocked the door and entered his apartment, abandoning the papers to the communal hallway. It didn’t matter if he locked the door behind him and pulled the curtains shut, his home was no longer a sanctuary. There were no sanctuaries any longer. Soon everyone would know, every schoolchild and every factory worker would read the speech. Not only would they know, they’d be allowed to talk openly, encouraged to discuss.
He pushed open the bedroom door, staring down at his wife, asleep, on her side, her hands under her head. She was beautiful. He adored her. They lived a perfect, privileged life. They had two wonderful, happy daughters. His wife had never known disgrace. She’d never known shame. She’d never known Nikolai in any other guise than that of a loving husband, a tender man who’d die for his family. He sat on the edge of the bed, running a finger along her pale arm. He couldn’t live with her knowing the truth, changing her opinion of him, pulling away, asking questions, or, worse still, remaining silent. Her silence would be unbearable. All her friends would ask questions. She’d be judged. How much did she know? Had she always known? Better that he should not live to see her shamed. Better that he should die now.
Except his death would change nothing. She would still find out. She would wake to find his body and she would cry and grieve. Then she would read the speech. Although she’d attend his funeral she would wonder at the things he’d done. She would rethink the moments they spent together, when he’d touched her, when he’d made love to her. Had he murdered someone hours before? Had her home been bought with blood? Perhaps, eventually, she would even come to believe that he deserved to die and that taking his life had been the right thing to do, not just for him but also for their daughters.
He picked up the pillow. His wife was strong and she would struggle, but even though he was out of shape, he was confident of his ability to overpower her. He positioned himself carefully and she moved accordingly, sensing his body, no doubt pleased he was home. She rolled onto her back, smiling. He couldn’t look at her face anymore. He had to act now before he lost his nerve.
He lifted the lid. There were no photographs. Instead, there was a stack of neatly printed pages, a substantial document, over a hundred pages long. On the top rested an accompanying letter. He picked it up, scanning the words. It wasn’t addressed to him: it was an official State letter declaring that this speech was to be distributed to every school, every factory, workers and youth group up and down the country. Confused, he put the letter down, taking up the speech. He read the first page carefully. He began shaking his head. This couldn’t be true. It was a lie, a malicious fabrication, intended to drive him insane. This could never have been published by the State: they would never distribute such a document. It was impossible.
INNOCENT VICTIMS TORTURE
These words couldn’t exist in black and white, printed, State-sanctioned, distributed to every school and factory. When he caught the perpetrator of this hoax, this well-informed hoax, he’d have them executed.
Involuntarily Nikolai scrunched up the page he was reading and tossed it aside. He began to tear at the next page, and the next, ripping them into shreds, tossing the scraps aside. He stopped, bending forward, curling into a ball, his head resting on the unread pages, muttering to himself:
– It can’t be true.
How could it be? But it was here, with a State-stamped letter, containing information only the State would know, with sources, quotes, references. The conspiracy of silence, which Nikolai had presumed would last forever, was over. It was no trick.
The speech was real.
Nikolai stood up, leaving the papers scattered. He unlocked the door and entered his apartment, abandoning the papers to the communal hallway. It didn’t matter if he locked the door behind him and pulled the curtains shut, his home was no longer a sanctuary. There were no sanctuaries any longer. Soon everyone would know, every schoolchild and every factory worker would read the speech. Not only would they know, they’d be allowed to talk openly, encouraged to discuss.
He pushed open the bedroom door, staring down at his wife, asleep, on her side, her hands under her head. She was beautiful. He adored her. They lived a perfect, privileged life. They had two wonderful, happy daughters. His wife had never known disgrace. She’d never known shame. She’d never known Nikolai in any other guise than that of a loving husband, a tender man who’d die for his family. He sat on the edge of the bed, running a finger along her pale arm. He couldn’t live with her knowing the truth, changing her opinion of him, pulling away, asking questions, or, worse still, remaining silent. Her silence would be unbearable. All her friends would ask questions. She’d be judged. How much did she know? Had she always known? Better that he should not live to see her shamed. Better that he should die now.
Except his death would change nothing. She would still find out. She would wake to find his body and she would cry and grieve. Then she would read the speech. Although she’d attend his funeral she would wonder at the things he’d done. She would rethink the moments they spent together, when he’d touched her, when he’d made love to her. Had he murdered someone hours before? Had her home been bought with blood? Perhaps, eventually, she would even come to believe that he deserved to die and that taking his life had been the right thing to do, not just for him but also for their daughters.
He picked up the pillow. His wife was strong and she would struggle, but even though he was out of shape, he was confident of his ability to overpower her. He positioned himself carefully and she moved accordingly, sensing his body, no doubt pleased he was home. She rolled onto her back, smiling. He couldn’t look at her face anymore. He had to act now before he lost his nerve.
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