How could he have done it? Betrayed her just because he was annoyed with Yuri. He scuffed his shoe furiously in the dusty soil and wanted to burrow down into a hole under the ground and stay there. His skin was sticky with sweat because he knew he had to face her. And quickly.
He raced past a group of men tossing iron horseshoes onto pegs, and was relieved to spot Yuri among them. Maybe he wouldn’t actually tell . . . Then Pyotr saw her down the side of one of the large tents, easy to recognize in that dress because it was the prettiest on the field. She’d know what was best to do. He started to run toward her but skidded to a halt when he saw she was talking to someone. With a funny twist in his stomach he recognized her companion. It was Deputy Stirkhov, the one who had given the address at the meeting, deputy chairman of the whole raion. Deputy Stirkhov was a man of the Party, a man who knew right from wrong.
Sofia was handing him something small wrapped in material, and Pyotr’s heart skipped a beat because he knew without even looking what was inside it. It would be the diamond ring or maybe the pearls. It didn’t matter which, but definitely it would be a piece of jewelry. Stirkhov stuffed it deep in his trouser pocket, then leaned forward and tried to kiss Sofia’s mouth. Pyotr was shocked. What had Sofia done to the man? She was corrupting Stirkhov too.
Up in the bright blue sky a thin speck of noise like a distant buzz saw started to drill into his mind, and he recognized it as the Krokodil approaching. He wiped his palms on his shorts, his mind spinning. He’d been right all along. Sofia wasn’t just a fugitive, she really was an enemy of the people, and that realization sent a dart of sorrow into his heart because he loved her now and, more important, Papa loved her.
Papa, he must find Papa and speak with him. He started to run.
FIFTY-FOUR
SHE’S beautiful.”
Mikhail’s eyes shone with pleasure as he squinted up at the airplane’s wings glinting in the midday sun. “Just the sight of her so close makes my hands itch to touch her.”
“It’s a brilliant propaganda weapon,” Sofia admitted, shielding her eyes with her hand.
The high-winged silver-skinned airplane swooped down from the sky like a giant bird of prey, and on each side of the makeshift runway Sofia could see the Young Pioneers lining up, backs stiff as soldiers. Behind them stood the real soldiers, the ones with rifles to keep the spectators away from the plane.
“The Krokodil is one of the Maksim Gorky Agitprop Squadron,” Mikhail informed her, “designed to fly from town to town across Russia. It distributes pamphlets and gives film shows to demonstrate what great strides Communism is making. It shows off Stalin’s grandest projects like the building of the White Sea Canal.”
“You’ve already told me all that. Tell me something new.”
“Have I mentioned that it was named after the Krokodil magazine and differs from other ANT-9s by having aerodynamic fairings over the wheels and struts?”
“Interesting. But what about its engines?”
“Well, it has two M-17 engines instead of the original three Gnome et Rhone Titans, which gave it . . .” He dragged his gaze away from the plane, looked at her, and grinned. She loved his grin. “You’re making fun of me, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“So what else shall I tell you? That Stalin intends that Russia will soon outstrip the West or”—his mouth twitched with mischief— “that you have the most beautiful eyes on earth and that I want to kiss your lips?”
“Hmm, let me think. That’s a hard one to choose.”
She stepped closer, leaning in toward him, but at that moment the guttural growl of the twin engines roared across the field.
“Look!” He pointed over the heads of the crowd. “Look at its teeth!”
Sofia would rather look at Mikhail’s strong white teeth with their small telltale chip, but she wasn’t going to argue. The plane dropped down onto the grass, where, as it rolled and bounced to a stop, the crowd broke into cheers, the Young Pioneers saluted, and the brass band struck up the Internationale.
“It’s smiling,” Sofia laughed in astonishment.
Painted on the long reptilian plywood nose that the designer Vadim Shavrov had specially added were the jaws and sharp teeth of a crocodile, curved into a disarming smile. Down the spine of the fuselage a row of bumps rose like the scaly ridges of a crocodile’s back.
“It’s inspired,” Mikhail exclaimed. “The most famous airplane in the country.”
“It makes me proud to be Russian,” Sofia said solemnly.
“You’re teasing me again.”
“No, Mikhail. I mean it. I am proud of Russia and I am proud of being Russian.”
He gave her a wide smile. “Then let’s go and inspect the Krokodil.”
He took her hand in his and led her across the field through the milling throng with a long energetic stride, but the look in his eyes was so serious and so determined, it didn’t match the smile on his lips. It made her uneasy.
SOFIA, have you seen Yuri?” Mikhail asked.
The afternoon was measured by how many times the propellers swung into action. They were watching the Krokodil take off once more, and a collective intake of breath from the crowd whispered on the hot summer breeze as the aircraft shook off its lumbering attachment to the ground. It soared up into the air, and once in its natural element it possessed all the grace of a dancer. It dipped one wing and banked smoothly into a circle above the field, climbing higher and higher with each circuit.
“Yes, I saw him in the film projection tent earlier.”
“Not since?”
“No. The races are about to start, so he’s probably over there by the flags.”
Mikhail’s gaze scanned the sea of faces on the field. “I can’t see him.”
Sofia rested a hand lightly on his forearm. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled well back because of the heat of the day, and she could feel that the muscle underneath was tense.
“What is it, Mikhail? What’s the matter?”
“Pyotr came to see me.” He released a harsh breath. “He said things about you to Yuri that he shouldn’t have said, and he’s frightened that Yuri will go to Stirkhov with it.”
Despite the warmth of the sun, Sofia’s face froze.
The voices and the laughter all around them, the band’s incessant drumming, and the throb of the heavy M-17 engines all faded to nothing. Silence seemed to fill the whole wide arc of sky.
Mikhail stared at her grim-faced. “It’s time to leave.”
ZENIA, wait a minute.”
The gypsy girl was emerging from a tent. Each tent contained a different machine or process on display to indicate the modernization of industry, but the most popular by far was the one full of the latest shiny sewing machines. Every woman in the field coveted one. Sofia caught the gypsy girl’s arm and drew her aside behind a heavy GAZ truck that had transported the benches and chairs. It smelled of oil and warm paintwork.
“What is it, Sofia? You look . . . unhappy.”
“I saw you with your friend Vanya earlier. He isn’t in OGPU uniform today.”
“No, he’s off-duty.” Zenia couldn’t stop herself smiling as she talked of him.
“But he’d hear what’s going on, wouldn’t he? He’d know if there’s any trouble today.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“A search for someone.”
Zenia’s features became still and she studied Sofia hard. “Wait here and stay behind the truck. I’ll be back as quickly as I can. Don’t move.” She hurried away.
Sofia didn’t move.
SHE remained behind the truck and knew this was the end. The end of everything. The choice was already made.
The hot breeze that blew through the silver birches bordering the meadow sounded as sad as the wind that sighed over the empty flats of the taiga, and all around her the air was delicate and clear as glass. She could taste its sparkle on her tongue in a way she never had before because now she was losing it.
> It was a straight choice.
And at that moment she hated Anna with a hatred that took her breath away.
BISTRO!” Zenia was back, her eyes huge. "We must swap clothes.”
She was already yanking off her skirt to reveal thin childish legs and untying the red scarf from her neck. Sofia didn’t ask why. It was obvious they were searching for her and had her description.
“Spasibo, Zenia,” she said as she stepped into Zenia’s black skirt with felt flowers in bright colors around the hem and buttoned up the white gypsy blouse. But the words thank you were nowhere near enough.
“I asked Vanya. You are to be arrested as an escaped fugitive the moment they find you.”
Sofia tied Zenia’s triangular scarf over her head to disguise her blond hair and knotted it at the back, while Zenia pulled on the cornflower dress. Then Sofia drew from the small pouch she wore at her waist three objects. They lay on her outstretched palm, their perfection at odds with her scarred fingers.
“Zenia, I’m leaving, but I would like you to have one of these. Take whichever you wish.”
One was the round white pebble Rafik had given her. The second was a wolf’s long curved tooth from her time in the forest. It hung on a rawhide cord. The third was a diamond ring, so big and so bright it looked like it had swallowed the sun. The gypsy girl took a long time deciding, her black eyelashes darting shadows on her cheeks. Her hand hovered over Sofia’s and she eventually lifted up the amulet of the wolf’s canine tooth, which she tied around her neck by the cord. Neither commented on the gift or the choice.
“There is a packet for you in my skirt pocket,” Zenia said. “From Rafik.”
Sofia rummaged in the black skirt’s patch pocket and found a small twist of brown paper that contained a handful of strong-smelling herbs.
“What is it?”
“A painkiller,” Zenia said and looked away.
A painkiller? What did Rafik know that she didn’t?
“Thank you, Zenia.”
“Take care.”
Sofia’s hand closed tightly over the pebble and the ring. She would need much more than care.
ZENIA told me you were here,” Mikhail said as he stepped around the rear flap of the GAZ truck and gathered her into his arms. He caressed the nape of her neck, and she wanted to stay on that spot with him for the rest of her life. She laid her forehead against his chest and listened to the rapid beat of his heart.
“I thought you weren’t coming back,” she whispered.
He took her face in his hands and tipped it up to look into his eyes.
“I’ll always come back, my love,” he promised. “Always.”
He kissed her mouth. Soft and tender, her tongue darting hungrily to his. She clung to him, imprinting the feel of him into her muscles, and then she stepped out of his arms and kept her voice steady.
“Did you find Yuri? Or Pyotr?”
“No. Pyotr seems to have vanished, but I learned that Yuri is up in the plane.”
“What?”
The Krokodil had been carrying a lucky few up into the air for short flights all afternoon, but it had seats for only nine passengers at a time. Most were for the Party hierarchy, but some were reserved for workers nominated for special dedication and achievement.
“Yuri is up in the plane,” Mikhail repeated flatly.
“It’s Stirkhov’s reward to him,” Sofia moaned. “For information.”
Mikhail nodded, silent and severe. “I’m so sorry, Sofia.”
The aircraft was coming in for its final landing of the day, its engines drowning out the chorus of cheers hailing its return.
“They’re hunting for you, my love. The perimeters are well guarded, identity papers are being checked. Our best chance of hiding you safely is in the middle of the crowd where you can keep on the move, until you—”
“Mikhail, Pyotr idealizes the Party. Don’t blame him.”
“I do, Sofia. I blame him, and I blame myself.” He looked at her, noticed her change of clothes, and the anger in his eyes softened. Gently he cupped her cheek in his palm, and she tipped her head sideways into it.
“Well, what have we here?” An officer in khaki uniform was standing beside the front wing of the truck, staring at them. He looked just as surprised as they were.
“Comrade,” Sofia smiled as she slid an arm around Mikhail’s waist, “you wouldn’t deny us five minutes away from the sharp eyes of my friend’s wife, would you?”
The soldier laughed. His trousers were already half unbuttoned, and it was obvious he’d come to relieve himself behind the truck. His face was broad and good-natured, but his nose ran in a crooked line as though involved in one fight too many.
“Don’t mind me, comrades,” he said easily. But just as easily the Tokarev pistol flew from the holster on his hip into his hand, its business end pointed straight at Sofia. “Just show me your papers first.” He said it with a grin to emphasize that he intended no harm, just being cautious.
“Of course, comrade.”
Sofia made a show of rummaging in her pocket for her papers, but instead her hand touched the cool surface of the stone and instantly she cleared her mind, stilled her breath. She moved forward toward the soldat, her eyes locked tight on his, and she saw him frown and glance down at the gun in his hand with sudden confusion.
That was when Mikhail struck. Two strides and the edge of his hand to the man’s throat, followed by a sharp blow to his jaw that sent the soldier’s head snapping back against the side of the truck with a loud metallic thud. The body crumpled onto the grass. They took no chances. In seconds Sofia had the soldier’s belt off and Mikhail had used it to truss his hands and feet together behind his back, and then they stuffed his handkerchief in his mouth and pocketed his gun.
"Now,” Mikhail said. “Time to leave.”
AS soon as the Krokodil touched down, everything happened fast. The two crewmen and their two assistants bundled projection equipment and cardboard boxes back onto the plane, while final but mercifully brief speeches were made and the band struck up the Internationale for the last time. White clouds began to drift across the sun like curtains drawing a performance to a close, and the mood in the field was one of exhilaration, as noisy huddles of men started to gather around bottles of kvass and vodka.
But none of it stopped those in uniform going about their job efficiently, and every blond young woman was ordered to show identity papers. Sofia dodged several, but time was running out. Any moment now the soldier behind the truck would be found, but Mikhail had gone once more in search of Pyotr.
“Don’t attempt to leave until I return,” he’d said.
She’d kissed him farewell, a light brush of the lips, and with it everything cracked inside her. She breathed, but only because she had to, not because she wanted to. She stood in the middle of a dense gathering close to the airplane and became aware of the tall figure of the blacksmith, Pokrovsky, on her right, and Elizaveta Lishnikova over to her left. They were keeping watch, extra eyes seeking out danger, and Sofia was certain it was Rafik who had told them to guard her. She was just edging in Pokrovsky’s direction to apologize for her outburst in the smithy, when the teacher shouted a warning and the next second a hand fell on Sofia’s shoulder. She spun around.
It was a khaki uniform but not the one from the truck. This man was older, with alert eyes under heavy bristled brows.
“Dokumenti,” he ordered.
Four men in uniform stood around her, like wolves circling a sheep, and from the corner of her eye she saw Pokrovsky pushing his way through the crowd toward her. No, don’t come near; she willed him to keep away because she didn’t want him hurt too. It would be a bullet in the back for her if she ran, but a bullet in the brain if they saw the name they were searching for on her papers. Back or brain, the choice wasn’t hard. Time slowed down as she reached into her pocket and slid out her residency permit. Anna, forgive me. Forgive me, my friend, forgive me for failing.
“Ah, th
ere you are.” Mikhail’s hand suddenly slotted under her elbow, almost jerking her off her feet. Pyotr was pressed close to her other side, his brown eyes dark with misery.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“It’s all right, Pyotr, you did what you believed was right.” Gently she touched his hand and felt his fingers cling to hers.
“Your papers?” The soldier raised his voice.
“Comrade,” Mikhail said sharply, “this woman is with the crew of the—”
But already the soldier was reaching forward to pull her from Mikhail’s grasp, and rifles rattled around her.
“Stop that at once.”
Sofia swung around and was astonished to find herself staring into the face of Aleksei Fomenko. He gave her no more than a fleeting nod, then flashed some identity in front of the uniformed officer. A space immediately cleared around her.
“I can vouch for this woman,” he said brusquely. “What the hell are you and your men doing wasting your time here when you should be out there”—he flung a dismissive arm toward the rest of the field—“searching for the fugitive?”
The space around Sofia grew even larger as the soldiers backed off, and she felt Mikhail’s grip tighten on her arm.
“This woman and I are to leave with the airplane crew,” Mikhail protested angrily.
“I’ll need to see proof of that,” the officer responded, but already the aggression had waned and his manner was hesitant.
Fomenko put himself between Sofia and the uniform, his authority taking easy control. “Don’t be bloody foolish, soldat. The cloud base is lowering every minute, so they need to leave right now, or shall I report you for causing delays to . . . ?”
“No, Comrade Chairman, that won’t be necessary.”
Sofia felt Mikhail jerk her into action. Her feet remembered to move as, heart hammering, she was propelled forward and into the airplane. The flimsy corrugated door closed behind her and the body of the Krokodil shuddered and rumbled, making noises that sounded like contentment.
Sofia breathed. Because she wanted to.
FIFTY-FIVE
The Red Scarf Page 41
