by Alina Adams
Daria hesitated. Alyssa was right, even the smallest scraps could be put to some use, and a knitted shawl was nothing to throw away. Still, the idea of putting her naked child in the ground . . .
Avoiding Edward’s eyes, Daria undid the knots she’d just made, throwing the shawl back over her shoulders, telling herself that if she fell ill, her husband and the one daughter they had left would be lost for good. Daria stood, cradling the weightless thing that had once been Anya. She headed for the door, hissing to Alyssa, “Bring Papa.”
Edward rose and accepted his older daughter’s hand, allowing Alyssa to lead him. A few people had woken up and were watching them. There were periodic flickers of sympathy, but most merely looked unsurprised.
One whispered to Daria, “The clearing on the left, by the newer pines. Too small to cut down—they don’t look there.”
“Thank you,” Daria said, but the woman had already scurried away. She’d risked enough.
They buried Anya alongside others whose families couldn’t stomach the official mass of graves erected on the other side of the settlement. They wanted their loved ones close by. And they didn’t want them spending eternity under the authority of those who’d driven them there.
Daria, Edward, and Alyssa dug with their hands, racing the sun, and the roll call that came with it. Edward was humming again. Alyssa joined him. They started to, of all things, harmonize.
Daria whipped around, about to tell them that this was neither the time nor the place, that they were dawdling, wasting precious energy that could better be spent elsewhere; that they were drawing dangerous attention to themselves, risking their all being caught; that they were driving her mad.
Except that, before the words were out of her mouth, Daria saw Edward and Alyssa, their heads bent together. Her husband was smiling, actually smiling as he looked approvingly at their daughter. Edward told Alyssa, “Yes, remember, the music inside, they cannot take that away from you, not unless you let them.”
“I won’t let them, Papa,” Alyssa promised.
They were back in the barracks in time to report for work.
“She’s dead,” Daria told Adam. For reasons she couldn’t explain, not to Edward, not to herself, Daria felt compelled to return and let Adam know what had happened. “Thank you for getting her the medicine. But it was too late.”
“My sympathies,” Adam said. Much to Daria’s surprise, she felt that he meant it.
“I am grateful to you for trying.”
“The medicine.” He looked almost embarrassed. “It might not have been any good. They ship it from Moscow, and everyone along the way, they stick their hand in, take a share. By the time it got to us, it might have been no more than sawdust, chalk, and colored water.”
“I thank you in any case, Adam Semyonovitch.” This time, she didn’t wait for him to show her the door. Daria paused, half facing him. She asked, “With the kind of influence you’ve accrued here, couldn’t you get them to send you home?”
“What’s for me at home?” Adam mimed sweeping a courtyard.
She had one final question. “Why did you help me?”
“Because. You were the only one who ever looked me in the eye.”
By May, the temperatures rose above freezing. In July, it was possible to go without rags stuffed into your shoes or wrapped about your face and head. Everything melted. They attempted to salvage what little food had managed to grow before it was swept away, crushed, or stolen. The women who’d tended the fields weren’t allowed to keep any of their meager bounty. All produce was collected for redistribution, with Party members getting first pick, then bureaucrats, then employees, and so on down the line. Exiles were reminded how lucky they were not to be at the utter bottom of the food chain. Those would be the prisoners they never saw but were always in danger of being sent to join.
By August, the thermometer began dipping again and, in October, it was impossible to remember what those few golden weeks of reprieve had been like. Their day-to-day lives didn’t change. The single variation came when Daria arrived back at the barracks one evening to find Edward already there, lying on his bunk, eyes blank and staring at the wooden slats above him, fingers twitching. Alyssa, hovering, pointed to Edward’s right leg. A huge chunk had been torn from his thigh, then bound in a few rounds of now-blood-soaked gauze.
“Dr. Kholodenko says we were lucky it didn’t hit any major arteries or he would have bled to death,” Alyssa said. “She put something on to keep it from getting infected.”
“What happened?”
Daria asked Edward, but it was Alyssa who answered, repeating what she’d been told. “Batch of logs got loose and rolled free. They yelled for everyone to get out of the way, but Papa didn’t move fast enough. He just stood there. Like he wanted to be hit, they said.”
“You said you could go home, but you don’t want to,” Daria challenged Adam, having left Alyssa to watch over her father.
Adam continued tending his stills, adjusting the glass tubes and wooden buckets, wringing every last drop out of the magic elixir pervach, meaning first one, that made his life of relative comfort possible.
“Does that mean you could get someone else out, instead?”
He didn’t stop moving, but Daria thought she detected the shadow of a shrug.
“You could!” She pressed on. “My husband, Edward. He can’t live like this. He’s not like you.”
Adam turned his head in Daria’s direction. She thought he might finally say something. But after a look Daria couldn’t quite decipher, except to suspect she’d said something catastrophically wrong, Adam returned to his task.
Unable to take back her words or discern how they’d caused offense, Daria tried to drive them from Adam’s memory by speaking faster. “You know important people; they owe you favors. We’re here because of a mistake. You could get the charges against us dropped. Please. Please, I—I’ll do anything.” Daria made her offer without any forethought to what it could tangibly mean. But as soon as she heard herself, Daria also felt herself taking a step, tentatively resting her hand on Adam’s shoulder.
Her hand. It still shocked Daria every time she saw it. The lily smooth skin her mother had dipped in buttermilk (which she then used for cooking because nobody needed to know) was covered in half-healed, pus-filled abrasions, her nails torn to the flesh, blood clots dotting the cuticles, limp flesh hanging from each joint. If that’s what her hand looked like, Daria could only imagine the rest of her. Her hair felt greasy and thinning, and when it fell out in tangled clumps, she spied streaks of gray. Her cheeks had sunk to where it was tricky not to nick the inside of her mouth with her loosened teeth as she perfunctorily worked her jaw to keep her face from freezing. Her lips and nose were always chapped, red, and peeling. She made a point of avoiding her reflection if assigned to work near any clear body of water but still couldn’t help catching an unwelcome glimpse here and there. Purple rounded her eyes. Ochi chernye, indeed. How in the world could Daria hope to appeal to a man, looking the way she did?
And yet, she had to. Daria ignored what she saw in front of her and what she felt inside and, instead, called up the girl who’d stood by the Odessa Opera House seven years prior. And the mother who’d convinced her she was desirable enough that a single stroll would bait the hook. They would reel in the man of both their dreams by making him work for it. For her.
Daria’s impulse was to throw herself at Adam, hideous as she was. To peel off her clothes and stand in front of him, making it clear he could do anything he wanted, any way he wanted, for as long as he wanted—if he would just promise to get her family out of this hell.
But Mama’s training ran deep. Daria fought her instincts. The moment Adam turned his head to look at her hand on his shoulder, then trail his gaze up her arm and finally to Daria’s face, Adam’s eyes expressing an interest she was certain had never, ever been there before, that’s when Daria smiled coyly. And took a step back.
Her heart was beating so viole
ntly, Daria felt certain Adam could spy her feeble rib cage rattling from the impact. Was she out of her mind? Was she honestly playing hard to get while her family’s lives were at stake? Who did she think she was?
Daria kept walking toward the door, away from the room with the still and toward the bedroom. What would she do when she got there? She had no idea. Daria didn’t even know if he’d follow her.
He followed her.
Adam rose from his knees, dusted his palms off one against the other, then against the front of his shirt and pants, and he followed Daria. Into his bedroom.
She paused, not by the bed but by the window, looking out onto a street so barren it didn’t even warrant a sidewalk or a light, as if it were the most fascinating of sights, her back to Adam, willing him to make the next move and come to her.
He reeked of vodka, the smell growing stronger as he drew closer. She heard his footsteps behind her, his ragged breath engulfing the top of her head. He was pawing her hair with his fingers, then slithering them down to her neck, rough, callused palms scraping her raw, wind-burned flesh. And still, Daria didn’t turn around. She wasn’t going to make this easy for him.
Mama would be proud.
He stopped. Just when Daria thought he would go further, slide his hand and grab her breast in the same way every guard felt entitled to do to every woman, Adam stopped. And Daria panicked.
She whipped around, convinced she’d played this all wrong. What a fool to think Mama’s advice would hold any relevance here! Daria was ready to beg for another chance, to give in, to do anything, just like she’d implied, no more teasing. But Adam was already gone, withdrawn to the farthest corner of the room, the hands he’d used to fondle her hidden behind his back.
“Come back tomorrow,” he barked, before Daria had a chance to sort out the implications of his command. “Bring your husband.”
Chapter 9
Edward didn’t ask why. Which was good, because Daria wouldn’t have known how to answer. Twenty-four hours later, she had no more idea why Adam was demanding Edward’s presence than she had while leaving his home, confused and humiliated. Daria expected more of that in her future. But for now, she tried to make herself look as presentable as possible. She used her fingers to smooth out the worst of the tangles in her hair, then braided it, starting at the top of her head, pulling up the sides in a style that had once emphasized her delicate bone structure. To disguise her deathly paleness, Daria picked at the half-healed rips in her skin, squeezing out enough blood to smear on her cheeks, giving them what she hoped would be a rosy, healthy glow.
She neatened Edward up, too. While some men still took the trouble to shave, using sharpened rocks or a thread they ran up and down their faces, Edward had allowed his beard to grow in uneven clumps. Daria smoothed it down as best she could. Edward neither objected to her ministrations nor helped. Daria was determined that her husband also look presentable, to give him his dignity, no matter what Adam had planned for the two of them.
“Thank you,” Edward told Adam. “The medicine for Anya. Thank you very much.”
They were the most words Daria had heard Edward utter in weeks. She beamed at him like a proud mother watching her child accept a hard-earned school prize. She couldn’t help feeling grateful to Adam for having drawn them out of him.
The three of them stood in Adam’s central room. There was the haggard writing desk Daria noticed earlier, a single kerosene lamp whose light didn’t quite reach the farthest moldy corners, and the piano, which was where Edward’s gaze instantly fixed. Even as he thanked Adam, his eyes stayed steady on the instrument.
“You want to play?” Adam yanked up the lid, revealing a water-stained keyboard with one black and one white key missing. “Play.”
Edward approached cautiously, as if it might be a trick or a mirage. He kept checking with Adam, head quivering over his shoulder, expecting permission to be withdrawn at any second, followed by punishment.
Adam stomped over to the desk, grabbed the wooden chair that went with it, and dragged it across the floor to the piano, ramming it against the backs of Edward’s knees. Daria’s husband collapsed into a sitting position. Adam shoved him closer to the keyboard. “Play!”
“Play . . . what?”
Daria’s heart sank. Edward had gotten so used to doing what he was ordered—no more, no less—that her brilliant husband, whose mind once swam with every note to every symphony and opera ever written, now couldn’t think of a single option on his own. Or maybe he was too terrified of choosing the wrong one and suffering the consequences.
Daria’s first instinct was to urge him to play the tune he hummed endlessly, the one he and Alyssa had harmonized on at Anya’s grave. But no, that melody was sacrosanct. She didn’t want to ruin it for him.
Adam, for all his belligerent bravado, looked equally stymied. “Play a . . . a waltz.” The answer pried from his brain with great effort and impatient indifference.
Daria hoped Edward wouldn’t ask which waltz. Any further exchange seemed beyond them both.
He didn’t. Instead, Edward reverently hovered his hands above the keyboard, flexing his battered, stiff, ravaged fingers a ritual three times before lowering them and launching into the first notes of what Daria recognized as The Blue Danube.
It was a relatively simple piece. Children performed it at recitals. But as Edward began to play, Daria watched her husband transform. He sat up straighter, loosening his shoulders, straightening his neck, chin up, leaning back, and evening his breath. His brow smoothed, causing Daria to realize how much tension he had been holding in his face.
Adam’s hand gripped Daria’s elbow. She startled. She’d forgotten he was there.
“Dance with me.” It wasn’t a request.
Daria whipped her head to check if Edward had heard. But he was lost in his music.
Adam dragged Daria to the center of the room and forced her to face him. He placed one hand on the small of her back and used his other to seize one of hers. His eyes bore down into her. She had no choice but to rest her free palm on his shoulder as, on the next downbeat, he proceeded to whip Daria around to all four corners, sweeping so closely by the piano, Daria’s hip brushed against Edward.
When was the last time she’d danced? A New Year’s Eve party, most likely. What year had that been? What year was it now? Despite Mama’s insisting that Daria learn to waltz properly, there’d been few occasions for her to do so with Edward. He was usually the one playing while everyone else danced, abandoning Daria to be squired by gentlemen too polite to leave her a wallflower. As a result, she’d grown quite skilled at accommodating a variety of partners. Adam moved with unexpected grace for a man of his bulk. What started as Daria’s being pulled along quickly turned into his properly leading her. She’d first looked down at his feet, trying not to get trampled, but when Daria realized that Adam, surprisingly, knew what he was doing, she raised her head, staring straight into the broad width of his chest. It was disorienting, having buttons bob in front of her face. When her head spun to the point of collapse, Daria surrendered and assumed proper waltz position. She looked into Adam’s eyes.
Adam’s eyes blazed.
They noticed, they considered, they appreciated, they wanted . . . they wanted more than just food, more than just warmth. More than just to live through another day.
Adam’s eyes wanted her.
Daria still remembered that look.
And she remembered how that look had made her feel.
Beautiful. Powerful. Exultant. Hopeful.
Disloyal.
The next time Adam spun her around, Daria took advantage of the momentum to wrench herself free, letting go and deliberately stumbling into Edward, nearly knocking him off his chair, interrupting him midchord. She clung to her husband, using him as a shield between herself and Adam. Edward stared up at her, as dazed as someone who’d woken up from a nightmare into reality. Or vice versa.
“The piano, it needs tuning. I-I could tune it
for you,” Edward desperately offered. He’d stood up, one hand remaining on the keyboard, unable to sever the connection.
And for just the tiniest, darkest, split second, Daria hated him. She hated her husband for still having something he loved so much, it could pull him out of this hell from which the rest of them received no reprieve. For believing, like he’d told Alyssa, that no one could take the music out of him, unless he let them. And Daria loved him for, even in hell, somehow managing to cling to a shred of the man he’d once been. While he’d played, he’d become the old Edward. Even as Daria knew she would never be able to resurrect the girl she’d been.
Adam, however, wasn’t looking at Edward. He was looking at Daria, both of them still breathing heavily from the exertion and the dizziness and . . . nothing else whatsoever.
“You want back to Odessa?” Adam growled.
Daria didn’t trust her voice. She nodded.
“I can arrange that.”
Daria gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. She turned to Edward, wondering if he’d heard, if he’d understood, if he realized what this meant?
“I can get him out,” Adam went on. “And the little girl. But you”—Adam was speaking to Daria now, no one else—“you stay. Here. With me.”
Chapter 10
Dazed, Daria turned to Edward. He hadn’t reacted. Not to Adam’s offer, not to his price. It was like that first day, when the guard ripped Daria’s brassiere strap, and Edward, not knowing what he should or could do, had done nothing; he’d just let the moment unfurl in slow motion, like the music he claimed you couldn’t force but had to allow to flow anywhere it wanted. He looked back at Daria, waiting for her to make the necessary decisions for both of them.
His hand was still on the piano. He was using it for balance. The wound on his thigh had opened again, either from Adam’s slamming the chair against Edward’s legs or from Daria barreling into him in her attempt to escape Adam’s dance hold. Blood seeped through the stopgap bandage, forcing Edward to shift more of his weight to the other foot. He was wobbling, staggering to remain upright. The spark Daria had seen while he’d played was burning so low now, one wrong breath risked extinguishing it forever.
