Her question took Leo by surprise.
The elderly woman spoke again.
Everyone tensed. Leo remained silent, struggling to stay calm. They had to realize that there was no compromise. They had to concede, they had to accept that their little boy died an unfortunate death. Leo was here for their benefit. He turned to Fyodor, waiting for him to correct this woman.
Fyodor stepped forward.
Leo was offered a chair. He waved it away. He’d stand.
No one spoke, everyone waiting for the knock on the door. Leo regretted not taking that chair. Almost an hour passed, in silence, before a faint knock was heard. Fyodor opened the door, introducing himself and showing the woman in. She was perhaps thirty years old: a kind face, large, nervous eyes. Startled at all the people, Fyodor tried to comfort her.
But she wasn’t listening. She was staring at Leo.
Leo took out his pad, finding a fresh page. The woman didn’t reply. He glanced up. She still hadn’t said anything. Leo was about to repeat the question when she finally spoke.
Her voice was a whisper.
She looked about the room, then at the floor, then back at Leo, relapsing into silence. Fyodor prompted her, tension evident in his voice:
Fyodor, standing right beside her, his eyes drilling into her, sighed with relief. She continued:
Leo tapped his pad with his pencil.
Fyodor’s mouth dropped, his words rushed out.
Leo shut his pad.
Before Leo could answer, Fyodor took the woman by the arm.
The woman pulled her arm free. She looked about the room, at all the eyes on her. She turned to Leo.
Galina dropped her face to the floor, hurrying to the front door. But before she reached it the elderly woman called out: