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the files. He explained:
    —A man killed himself, a former MGB agent.
    —Someone you knew?
    —No. Not that I remember.
    —You have to investigate?
    —Suicide is treated as—
    She interrupted.
    —I mean… does it have to be you?
    Raisa wanted him to pass the case over, to have nothing to do with the MGB, even indirectly. He pulled back.
    —The case won’t take long.
    She nodded, slowly, before changing the subject:
    —The girls are in bed. Are you going to read for them? Maybe you’re busy?
    —No, I’m not busy.
    He put the files back in the case. Passing his wife he leaned in to kiss her, a kiss that she gently blocked with a finger, looking into his eyes. She said nothing, before removing her finger and kissing him—a kiss that felt as if he was making the most unbreakable and sacred of promises.
    Entering his bedroom, he placed the files out of sight, an old habit. Changing his mind, he retrieved them, leaving them on the sidetable for Raisa should she want to read them. He hurried back down the hallway on his way to his daughters’ bedroom, trying to smooth the tension from his face. Smiling broadly, he opened the door.
    Leo and Raisa had adopted two young sisters. Zoya was now fourteen years old and Elena seven. Leo moved toward Elena’s bed, perching on the edge, picking up a book from the cabinet, a children’s story by Yury Strugatsky. He opened the book and began to read aloud. Almost immediately Zoya interrupted:
    —We’ve heard this before.
    She waited a moment before adding:
    —We hated it the first time.
    The story concerned a young boy who wanted to be a miner. The boy’s father, also a miner, had died in an accident and the boy’s mother was fearful of her son continuing in such a dangerous profession. Zoya was right. Leo had read this before. Zoya summarized contemptuously:
    —The son ends up digging more coal than anyone has ever dug before, becomes a national hero, and dedicates his prize to the memory of his father.
    Leo shut the book.
    —You’re right. It’s not very good. But Zoya, while it’s okay for you to say whatever you please in this house, be more careful outside. Expressing critical opinions, even about trivial matters, like a children’s story, is dangerous
.
    —You going to arrest me?
    Zoya had never accepted Leo as her guardian. She’d never forgiven him for the death of her parents. Leo didn’t refer to himself as their father. And Zoya would call him Leo Demidov, addressing him formally, putting as much distance between them as possible. She took every opportunity to remind him that she was living with him out of practical considerations, using him as a means to an end—providing material comforts for her sister, freeing her from the orphanage. Even so, she took care that nothing impressed her, not the apartment, not their outings, day trips, or meals. As stern as she was beautiful, there was no softness in her appearance. Perpetual unhappiness seemed vitally important to her. There was little Leo could do to encourage her to shrug it off. He hoped that at some point relations would slowly improve. He was still waiting. He would, if necessary, wait forever.
    —No, Zoya, I don’t do that anymore. And I never will again.
    Leo reached down, picking up one of the
Detskaya Literatura
journals, printed for children across the country. Before he could start, Zoya cut in:
    —Why don’t you make up a story? We’d like that, wouldn’t we, Elena?
    When Elena had first arrived in Moscow, she’d been very young, only four years old, young enough to adapt to the changes in her life. In contrast to her older sister, she’d made friends and worked hard at school. Susceptible to flattery, she sought her teachers’ praise, trying to please everyone, including her new guardians.
    Elena became anxious. She understood from the tone of her sister’s voice that she was expected to agree. Embarrassed at having to take sides, she merely nodded. Leo, sensing danger,