Read The Secret Speech for Free Online

in need of friends. I can’t dismiss your father’s suicide. I can petition my superiors to stop his actions from impacting on your careers. Times are different now: the mistakes of your father need not reflect on you. But you must earn my help. Tell me what happened. What was your father working on?
    The younger son shrugged:
    —He was working on some kind of State document. We didn’t read it. We destroyed all the pages he’d set. He hadn’t finished. We thought maybe he was depressed because he was going to print another badly produced journal. We burned the paper copy. We melted the typeset pages down. There’s nothing left. That’s the truth.
    Refusing to give up, Leo pointed at the machine:
    —Which machine was he working on?
    —This one.
    —Show me how it works.
    —But we’ve destroyed everything.
    —Please.
    Akvsenti glanced at his brother, evidently seeking permission. His brother nodded:
    —You operate the machine by typing. At the back the device collects the letter molds. Each line is formed of individual molds grouped together with space molds in between. When the line is finished it’s cast from a mixture of molten lead and tin. It forms a slug. Those slugs are placed on this tray, until you have an entire page of text. The steel page is then covered in ink and the paper is rolled over—the text is printed. But, like we said, we melted all the pages down. There’s nothing left.
    Leo walked around the machine. His eyes followed the mechanical process, the collection of letter molds to the assembly line. He asked:
    —When I type, the letter molds are collected in this assembly grid?
    —Yes.
    —There are no complete lines of text. You destroyed those. But in the assembly grid, there’s a partial line, a line that hasn’t been finished.
    Leo was pointing at an incomplete row of letter molds:
    —Your father was halfway through a line.
    The sons peered into the machine. Leo was right.
    —I want to print these words.
    The eldest son began tapping the space bar, remarking:
    —If we add spaces to the end of the line, it will be of complete length and ready to cast as a slug.
    Individual space molds were added to the incomplete line until the assembly grid was full. A plunger depressed molten lead into the mold and a narrow rectangular slug dropped out—the last words Suren Moskvin set before taking his own life.
    The single slug lay on its side, its letters tilted away from view. Leo asked:
    —Is it hot?
    —No
.
    Leo picked up the slug line, placed it on the tray. He covered the surface with ink and placed a single sheet of white paper over the top, pressing down.

SAME DAY
    S EATED AT HIS KITCHEN TABLE , Leo stared at the sheet of paper. Three words were all that remained of the document that had resulted in Suren Moskvin taking his own life:
    Under torture, Eikhe
    Leo had read the words over and over again, unable to take his eyes off them. Out of context, their effect was nonetheless hypnotic. Breaking their spell, he pushed the sheet of paper aside and picked up his case, laying it flat on the table. Inside were two classified files. In order to obtain access to them he’d needed clearance. There’d been no difficulty regarding the first file, on Suren Moskvin. However, the second had prompted questions. The second file he’d requested was on Robert Eikhe.
    Opening the first set of documents, he felt the weight of this man’s past, the number of pages accumulated on him. Moskvin had been a State Security officer—just like Leo—a Chekist, for far longer than Leo had ever served, keeping his job while thousands of officers were shot. Included in the file was a list: the denouncements Moskvin had made throughout his career:
    Nestor Iurovsky. Neighbor. Executed
    Rozalia Reisner. Friend. 10 years
    Iakov Blok. Shopkeeper. 5 years
    Karl Uritsky. Colleague. Guard. 10 years
    Nineteen years of service, two pages of denouncements, and nearly one hundred names—yet he’d only ever given up