— Tamara Petrovna, this is the notary’s office! Open up, or we will break down the door! — a female voice on the other side sounded like a hammer striking glass.
Tamara Petrovna froze near the old secretary desk, her fingers tightly clutching a velvet box with photographs. There was another knock on the door, more insistent this time.
— Just a moment, I’m coming! — her voice betrayed a slight tremble.
Opening the door, she saw two women standing on the doorstep — a young one with a sharp, blade-like gaze, and an older one carrying a briefcase.
— My name is Maria Sokolova, — said the younger woman without waiting for an invitation. — We came to discuss your future residence in the apartment of Elena Vasilyevna Kravchenko.
— Excuse me? — Tamara Petrovna frowned. — My aunt left this apartment to me.
The young woman smirked and nodded at her companion. The older woman opened her briefcase and pulled out a document.
— Your aunt’s latest will. Rewritten a week before her death. The apartment is transferred to me, as the person who took care of her in the last months.
— What care? — Tamara flared up. — I was here every day! I cared for her for twenty years! This must be some mistake!
— No mistake, — Maria handed over the paper. — But I’m not heartless. I’m giving you two weeks to pack. Some things stay in the apartment, some you take. You understand — the law is on my side.
Tamara Petrovna ran her eyes over the lines. Her aunt’s signature, who never learned to write the letter “K” without an extra stroke, was at the bottom. Genuine. And the date — indeed a week before death.
— My aunt couldn’t have done this. She… she promised me. I moved in with her when she fell ill. I left my room in the communal apartment.
— I found her in the stairwell when she couldn’t climb the stairs. You weren’t around, — Maria cut in. — You can discuss the rest with a lawyer.
The women left, leaving Tamara Petrovna holding the will. She sank onto a stool in the hallway and anxiously dialed her neighbor’s number.
— Alla Nikolaevna, do you remember who visited my aunt in her last month?
— But you came every day. And some young butterfly, always whispering with your aunt. She carried some papers.
Tamara Petrovna hung up and stared long at the kettle, as if it could tell her the answer. Then she straightened abruptly and called again.
— Ninochka, remember, your son Kolya works as a lawyer? I need some advice.
A tired sigh came from the other end.
— Toma, he charges terrible money. Even from me, his own mother…
— They’re taking the apartment, Nin. The one aunt promised.
— Tomorrow at noon. I’ll come myself and bring him along.
That night Tamara Petrovna went through old photographs. Here was Aunt Lena young, with her husband who died so early. Here they are together in Sochi. Aunt then said: “After me, everything will be yours, Tomochka. Who else?”
In the morning came a call. A police officer stood at the door.
— A complaint was filed by citizen Sokolova. You threatened her by phone.
— What? I don’t even know her number!
— She has an audio recording. And a witness.
— Are you serious? What threats? I sat home all evening yesterday, sorting photos! — Tamara clutched the doorframe.
— Unfortunately, they’ll believe her more. She has a competent lawyer. Better not to worsen the situation.
After the officer left, Tamara noticed the downstairs neighbor, Viktor Semyonovich. He stood by his apartment door, frowning.
— Tamara, what happened? Why the police?
— Viktor Semyonovich, I need to go somewhere. Could you… watch over the place? That woman might come while I’m gone.
— I’m retired, stay home anyway. Go where you need.
In a small lawyer’s office where three desks stood almost touching, Tamara Petrovna sat across from Nikolai — a lean man with expensive watches and tired eyes.
— So it turns out: your aunt rewrote the will to a stranger, though before she promised the apartment to you, — he flipped through papers. — Where’s the first will?
— It’s… probably at the notary. Aunt made it long ago, about five years back.
— Do you remember the notary office’s number?
— No, — Tamara nervously searched her purse. — But I know it’s somewhere downtown.
Nikolai closed his eyes and tapped the desk with a pen.
— The situation isn’t easy. If the will is genuine, we have little chance. If you were a direct heir — daughter or sister — it could be contested. But with a niece, it’s harder.
— But what can I do? I hoped all my life for that apartment. I have none of my own…
— Who paid for your aunt’s funeral?
— Me, of course.
— Any receipts?
— There should be some.
— Good, that’s an argument. Now the main thing: are you sure the signature is authentic?
Tamara Petrovna saw again the strange “K” with the extra stroke.
— The signature is real. I’d recognize it among thousands.
— And the handwriting in the main text? Also your aunt’s?
— No, it’s typed. On a computer.
— I see, — Nikolai rubbed his temples. — We’ll dig into incompetence. A week before death, illness… Maybe your aunt was misled. I need medical records, testimonies proving she was confused lately.
— But she understood everything perfectly! — Tamara protested. — She read newspapers and solved crosswords until the last day.
— Then it’ll be difficult.
— But who is this Maria? Aunt never mentioned her!
— We’ll find out. Maybe she met your aunt when you weren’t around.
Tamara felt uneasy.
— I worked. I couldn’t sit with her all day. I came in the morning, cooked lunch, gave injections, then again in the evening…
— The neighbor visited during the day. Aunt wasn’t bedridden yet.
Nikolai jotted notes.
— Gather as much evidence of your care as possible. Pharmacy receipts, neighbors’ testimonies. It will cost fifty thousand, thirty in advance.
Tamara shuddered.
— I don’t have that kind of money. It all went to the funeral.
— You’re your mother’s friend, I’ll do it for thirty. But only out of respect for her.
On the way home, Tamara stopped at the savings bank and withdrew her last savings — twenty-eight thousand. She’d have to borrow the remaining two thousand.
She approached the building at dusk. Viktor Semyonovich sat on a bench, leafing through a newspaper.
— So, was your invader here? — he asked, folding the paper.
— No? Or did she come in?
— Didn’t show up. I kept watch all day. Maria Andreevna, the neighbor from the third floor, even offered me tea, — he nodded toward the windows. — What did the lawyer say?
— Thirty thousand he asks. I have only twenty-eight.
Viktor Semyonovich chuckled and reached into his jacket pocket.
— Here, take this. Pay me back when you win the case.
— No, Viktor Semyonovich, I can’t…
— Take it, I insist! — he shoved two thousand-ruble bills into her hand. — Elena Vasilyevna loved you like a daughter. We all saw it. It’s not right to give the apartment to some stranger.
The apartment felt unusually cold. Tamara Petrovna turned on the kettle and sat on a stool. The phone rang sharply.
— Hello, Tamara Petrovna? This is Maria Sokolova. I’d like to come tomorrow to discuss the details of your eviction.
— Eviction? — Tamara echoed.
— Yes. I’m giving you two weeks, but I want to start measurements for repairs. You know, old furniture, wallpaper… Everything needs replacing.
Tamara clenched the receiver. Green wallpaper came to mind, the kind she and her aunt had glued five years ago. The mahogany secretary desk her aunt guarded like a treasure.
— I need time. I haven’t decided anything yet.
— What’s there to decide? The will is legal. I’ve already filed documents to register property rights.
— I will contest it.
— Pointless. My aunt… You know lawyer Sokolov? No? Too bad. He’s my uncle. No court will side with you.
— Aunt Lena couldn’t leave the apartment to a stranger!
— Stranger? — Maria laughed. — I cared for her when you weren’t around. I bought her medicine. I stayed nights with her when she struggled to breathe. Where were you?
— I was working! — Tamara’s voice cracked with tears. — Someone had to earn money for her medicine!
— Such touching care. Too bad Elena Vasilyevna valued mine more. Tomorrow at three. Try to be home.
Tamara lowered the phone, leaning heavily against the wall. Suddenly something flickered in her memory. “My aunt — lawyer Sokolov.” She dialed Nikolai’s number.
— Do you know lawyer Sokolov?
— Igor Mikhailovich? Of course. One of the most influential in town. Why?
— Maria says he’s her uncle.
Silence on the other end.
— That changes things. If Sokolov took this case personally… I fear chances are slim.
— So you give up? — Tamara asked bitterly.
— No, but… there may be problems. Better seek compromise.
— What compromise? She wants to throw out all my aunt’s furniture! Memorabilia! Our whole life is here!
— Maybe compensation? Part of the apartment’s value…
— So you think I will lose?
— Chances are low, — Nikolai answered honestly. — But we’ll fight.
After hanging up, Tamara looked at a large photo of her aunt hanging in the living room.
— What have you done, Aunt Lena? Why?
Something glinted in the corner of the frame. Tamara moved closer and noticed the photo’s corner wasn’t flush with the glass. She carefully removed the picture from the frame.
On the back, in her aunt’s beaded handwriting, was written: “Don’t trust Sokolova. Look in the bottom drawer of the secretary desk. Forgive me, Tomochka.”
Tamara rushed to the secretary desk. The third drawer from the bottom — the very one her aunt never allowed anyone to open. The drawer wouldn’t budge, as if something blocked it. She pulled harder, the old wood creaked, but the lock finally gave way.
Inside lay an envelope, and beneath it — a small audio cassette. With trembling hands, Tamara unsealed the envelope.
“Tomochka, if you’re reading this, I’m no longer alive. This woman, Maria Sokolova, is blackmailing me. She knows things about our family no one should know. About money in Cyprus that your father hid before his arrest. Sokolova somehow found out and demands the apartment be rewritten, or she will report to the tax office and implicate you as an accomplice. I cannot allow this, but I also cannot leave you homeless…”
Outside, an engine noise was heard. Tamara pressed to the window and saw Maria getting out of a black car accompanied by two men.
— Came too early, bitch! — muttered Tamara and resumed reading with feverish trembling.
“I recorded our conversation on the tape. There she demands rewriting the will and threatens. Take this to investigator Krasnov at the city prosecutor’s office. He handled your father’s case; he will help. Also, call Semyon Arkadyevich; he’s lived in our building a long time, a handyman…”
A knock interrupted her reading. Tamara hid the cassette in her robe pocket and the letter in her bosom.
— Open up, Tamara Petrovna! — Maria’s voice sounded impatient.
Tamara approached the door but did not open.
— We didn’t agree on today. You said tomorrow at three.
— Plans changed. I have appraisers here, they came specially for you. Let’s not create problems.
Tamara glanced at the phone. Call Viktor Semyonovich? Or the police immediately?
— I didn’t call anyone. Come tomorrow, as agreed.
Something was inserted into the keyhole. A key! Panicked, Tamara ran to the bathroom, grabbed a mop, and jammed the door handle.
— What are you doing?! — she shouted. — You have no right!
— I have full right. This is my property. I’m just showing patience, — Maria laughed, continuing to fiddle with the lock.
Tamara dialed a number.
— Hello, Viktor Semyonovich! Help! This woman is trying to break into the apartment!
— On my way, Toma! Hold on! — the neighbor’s voice was heard not only from the phone but also from the stairwell. A minute later his indignant voice rang out. — What is this lawlessness?
— Don’t interfere, sir, — one of Maria’s companions replied. — It’s their personal matter.
— I think the police will also be interested, — Viktor’s voice strengthened. — Yakovlevna from the first floor is already calling 112.
The lock stopped rattling.
— Fine, — Maria hissed. — We’ll leave. But tomorrow I come with bailiffs. Prepare to be evicted.
When footsteps faded, Tamara cautiously opened the door. On the landing stood not only Viktor Semyonovich but also Maria Andreevna from the first floor and the Kravtsov couple from the second.
— Everything alright, Toma? — asked Maria Andreevna. — What were you thinking! Breaking in broad daylight!
— I need to go to the prosecutor’s office, — said Tamara, clutching the cassette in her pocket. — Right now.
—I’ll take you, — offered Viktor. — I have a car in the yard.
On the way, Tamara told the neighbor about the note and cassette.
— Semyon Arkadyevich… — Viktor pondered. — Remember Semyon, who worked as an electrician in our building during Soviet times? Is it about him?
— Exactly! — exclaimed Tamara. — He later worked in the housing management. Aunt always called him when something broke.
— He moved to a neighboring district but we sometimes see each other at the veterans’ council. I had his number somewhere…
The car stopped at the prosecutor’s office. Tamara got out clutching documents and cassette tightly.
— Wait, — Viktor called after her. — Two witnesses are better than one.
Investigator Krasnov was absent — retired three years ago. But the young officer, hearing the name, immediately became attentive.
— Krasnov was a legend in our department. If it concerns him, I’ll personally handle it. What do you have?
Tamara handed him the letter and cassette.
— Can you listen to this? It’s proof of blackmail.
Listening took less than ten minutes but felt like an eternity to Tamara. Voices of her aunt and Maria were clear.
“…either you rewrite the will, or I report your son-in-law’s Cyprus accounts to the tax office. And believe me, your niece will suffer too.”
“Leave Tamara alone. She knew nothing of that money.”
“Consider it a deal. Tomorrow we go to the notary. And by the way, I wasn’t joking about taking care of you.”
The investigator turned off the tape and looked at Tamara.
— What are the Cyprus accounts?
— My father was a factory director in the 90s. He was accused of embezzlement but nothing was proven. He died during the investigation, — Tamara lowered her eyes. — I really didn’t know about any accounts.
The investigator nodded and made a note.
— Clear evidence of crime here — blackmail and coercion. We will open a case. But you need to file a lawsuit contesting the will. The tape will be evidence.
When they left the prosecutor’s office, darkness was falling.
— What now? — asked Tamara.
— Now we go to Semyon Arkadyevich, — Viktor said firmly. — Since Elena mentioned him, it’s for a reason.
Semyon Arkadyevich, a thin old man with piercing blue eyes, greeted them in his small tool-filled apartment.
— Elena Vasilyevna? Of course, I remember! — he exclaimed after hearing their story. — She asked me to make a secret drawer in the secretary desk. Said she wanted to hide something important. So I made it, a double bottom.
— Double bottom? — Tamara recalled how hard it was to pull out the drawer. — Could there be something else?
— Must be. Let’s go, I’ll show you.
The apartment was quiet and empty. Semyon Arkadyevich confidently approached the secretary desk and pressed a barely noticeable lever under the drawer. The bottom shifted, revealing a compartment where another envelope lay.
Inside was the real will, dated three days after the one Maria showed, notarized by another notary.
“I, Elena Vasilyevna Kravchenko, being of sound mind and memory, bequeath all my property, including the three-room apartment, to my niece Tamara Petrovna Smirnova…”
A week later the court invalidated the first will, deeming it made under duress. Maria Sokolova was arrested on fraud charges.
Tamara Petrovna stood by the window when the doorbell rang. Viktor Semyonovich stood on the doorstep with a box of chocolates.
— Just stopping by to check on the rightful heir.
— Still can’t believe it, — Tamara smiled, letting him in. — Sit down, I’ll put on the kettle.
She brought out her aunt’s antique tea set — the very one Maria wanted to throw away.
— You know, Viktor, all my life I thought I couldn’t manage alone. But it turns out I can. And how many people are ready to support.
Viktor smiled, accepting the cup.
— As they say, cramped but not offended. Neighbors are sometimes closer than family.
Outside, snow slowly fell, covering the city with a white blanket. This year winter came early, but for Tamara Petrovna, it seemed that a true spring had finally come into her life.