The Red Scarf

by Kate Furnivall

  “Is he still handsome?”

  “Yes, he’s still handsome.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “Well . . .” Sofia smiled, and Anna could hear her picking her words carefully as she gazed up at the stars. “His eyes are the kind of gray that changes shade with his mood, and they are always observant. He’s watching and thinking all the time.” Sofia laughed softly, and something in the laugh made Anna wonder if it was Vasily she was talking about. “He can be quite unnerving sometimes. But he gleams, Anna.”

  “Gleams?”

  “With belief. His certainty of the future he’s building gleams like gold.”

  “Tell me again what he said.”

  “Oh, Anna.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Why? It only hurts. Just remember that he gave the jewels for me to use to help you.”

  “I want to hear it again, what he said.”

  “He said Vasily is dead and gone . . . We must put aside personal loyalties . . . This is the way forward, the only way forward.”

  Anna closed her eyes. “He’s right. You know he is.”

  ANNA”—Mikhail spoke in a low voice so as not to wake Sofia— “she is not as strong as she pretends.”

  “You mean the wound in her stomach.”

  “Yes.”

  “She won’t tell me how it happened.”

  Mikhail sighed. “It was a group of soldiers. They were taking our horses and she . . . tried to stop them.”

  A soft rain was falling, muffling their voices as it pattered on the canvas stretched over their heads. Anna was sitting upright in her effort to breathe quietly beside Sofia, who was fretful and restless in her dreams. Mikhail stroked her shoulder, a gentle touch so tender that it made Anna want to cry.

  “Sofia mentioned a dog,” she prompted.

  Mikhail nodded. “Yes, there was one, an unwanted stray that she adopted and fed. It was extraordinary. When the shot was fired, it leaped in front of her and died from the bullet.”

  “Maybe it just jumped up with excitement.”

  “Maybe.”

  “But she was hit in the stomach anyway.”

  “Yes, but only a shallow wound. The bullet went through the dog first and then into her. An old man we were with at the time—the one who let us take one of his rifles—removed it and stitched her up. He said she was very lucky because at that range the bullet should have ripped holes through her vital organs, but . . .” He brushed the tangle of pale hair off Sofia’s sleeping face, and the lines of his mouth curved and softened.

  “But what?”

  “But I don’t believe it was luck.”

  “So what was it?”

  “Something more than luck.”

  For a while they were silent, watching the rain, and then Anna whispered, “Mikhail, where are we going?”

  A shadow crossed his features. “To Tivil, because I have a son there. Sofia and I have it all planned . . . we’ll collect him and after that we’ll use the remaining jewels to buy tickets for all four of us, as well as travel documents and new identities. And medicines for you. We’ll go somewhere safe and start a whole new life down by the Black Sea where it’s warm and your lungs can heal.”

  “My father had a dacha down there.”

  The mention of her father silenced him, and she regretted it. They sat for a long time listening to the wind in the forest and Sofia’s murmurs in her sleep.

  “Will we make it, Mikhail? To Tivil.”

  “The truth is”—he paused and leaned closer—“it’s unlikely, Anna. But don’t tell that to Sofia. She is so determined to make it, and I’ll do everything in my power to get us there, I swear. But we’re fugitives, so our chances are . . .” He didn’t finish.

  “Poor?”

  “I have only four shells left for the rifle.”

  “And the pistol?”

  “Two bullets.” Something seemed to loosen inside him and he shuddered. “I’m saving them.” He looked at Anna and then at Sofia, and it was obvious what he meant. “Just in case,” he murmured, and he lowered his head to kiss Sofia’s hair.

  No wonder Sofia was beautiful. To be loved like that would make anyone beautiful.

  “Thank you, Mikhail,” Anna whispered.

  CAN you taste the air, Anna?”

  It was night. A three-quarter moon lit their path through the forest and Mikhail walked ahead with the rifle while the two women rode the horse. For hours Sofia had walked stride for stride at his side, but now she was seated behind Anna, holding her firmly in place. Anna couldn’t recall how or when that had happened. Dimly she had a memory of falling off.

  “Yes, I can taste it.”

  “What does it taste of?”

  “Of wild animals and wild birds and wild berries. Of nothing in cages.”

  “Wrong.”

  “Of clean water and soap and scrubbed fingernails.”

  Sofia laughed. “Wrong.”

  “It tastes of hope.” Anna took in a great mouthful of air, then leaned back weakly against Sofia’s warmth behind her. “Sweeter than honey on my tongue.”

  “Better.”

  Anna sighed. She didn’t mean to, but the sight of a sliver of moonlight fingering the soft brown hair that rippled in the shadows ahead of them sent a shiver of longing through her for another head of brown hair. She loved Vasily so fiercely. Would she ever stop missing him? Even though he’d made it plain he didn’t want her, didn’t yearn for her the way she yearned for him, she knew she could never let him go.

  “Shall I tell you what the air tastes of, Anna?”

  In the dark Anna nodded, and the muffled sounds of the horse’s tread faded to nothing. Sofia’s breath was hot on her ear, and Anna could smell excitement in it.

  “The best taste in the world and the worst. Sweet and sour in the mouth at the same time. It’s the taste of choosing. You can choose, Anna. Do you remember how? I had to relearn after all those years without it. It was frightening at first but now”—Anna could sense her friend’s gaze seeking out Mikhail in the dark—“I’m not frightened to choose any more.”

  Anna tipped her head back on a bony collarbone.

  “There’s something else,” Sofia said, as if the contact had triggered the words, “something I wasn’t going to tell you but now I feel I have to.”

  “What?”

  “Something I kept to myself because I didn’t want it to hurt you by raising your hopes.”

  “Tell me.”

  A pause, during which somewhere nearby an animal snapped a twig and made their heart rate jump.

  “Vasily keeps a lock of your hair under his pillow.”

  Anna’s breath stopped. She coughed, wiped blood from her mouth with her sleeve, and felt something roar into life inside her. She stuck out her tongue to savor the cool night air and it tasted of happiness.

  THE nights merged together. Anna could no longer separate them from days, as darkness settled in her mind and refused to lift. She could feel her body shutting down, and she fought it every breath of the way.

  “She can’t travel any farther, Sofia. It’s killing her.”

  “Mikhail, my love, we can’t stop. It’s too dangerous.”

  “Dangerous to stop and dangerous to go on. You choose.”

  Sofia’s voice dropped to a fierce whisper, but Anna heard the words as she lay strapped to the horse’s back.

  “She’s dying, Mikhail. I swear on my love for you that I won’t let her go without seeing him one last time.”

  The horse walked on, and each step jarred Anna’s lungs, but she didn’t care. She was going to see Vasily. Sofia had sworn.

  SIXTY-ONE

  A horse is coming.”

  Pyotr stamped his valenki in the snow. "I can’t see any horses,” he complained, screwing up his eyes to peer into the white fog that lay like a sheet over the valley.

  “They’re coming,” Rafik repeated.

  “Is it Papa?”

  Rafik frowned, his black eyebrows twitch
ing under his shapka. “It’s him and he’s not alone.”

  “How do you know, Rafik?” Pyotr asked.

  But Rafik didn’t answer. Rafik and Zenia were standing with hands linked and muttering strange words that made no sense to Pyotr. But he had an odd feeling that the words turned into something solid in the cold damp air and rose like his breath to merge with the fog over Tivil. He didn’t like the feeling. He began to throw snowballs to warm himself up.

  They’d been waiting there an hour and his fingers had frozen, but that didn’t worry him. What worried him much more was that his hopes had frozen. He could feel them in a hard icy lump inside his chest. He’d been curled up at home in front of the warm pechka, the stove, when Zenia had come bounding in, cheeks glowing, bundled him up into his shuba coat, and dragged him out into the snow. Over recent months he’d never quite grown used to the gypsy girl’s sudden bursts of energy, and often he wondered if it had anything to do with all the strange herbs she ate.

  “Pyotr, come on, he’s waiting for us.”

  “Who?” He trotted alongside her, pulling on his varezhki, woolen mittens, his boots crunching through the snow.

  “Rafik.”

  “Zenia, wait a minute.” Pyotr was baffled. “What does he want with me?”

  “Hurry up.”

  “I am hurrying.”

  “Your father is coming home.”

  Pyotr sobbed, a strange animal sound he’d never heard before. Around him Tivil looked the same, the roofs edged with blue icicles, the woodpiles stacked high, the picket fences hibernating under their coating of snow. Still the same dull old village, but suddenly it had changed. Now in Pyotr’s wild joy everything shone bright and dazzling to welcome Papa home.

  HIS excitement had cooled. The wind and the snow and the sound of ice cracking on the river had stolen its heat. They’d been waiting on the road into the village for so long now, but nobody had come and he’d started to believe they were wrong. Though Rafik had given him a smile of welcome when he’d first arrived, now the gypsies paid him little heed. They talked in intense low voices in a tight huddle that excluded him.

  “When’s Papa coming?” he asked again.

  “Soon.”

  Soon had come and gone.

  But now Rafik had said urgently, “A horse is coming.”

  PYOTR was the first to hear the whinny of the horse. He straightened up and stared out past Zenia, wrapped in her thick coat and headscarf, into the shifting banks of fog where the road should be, but it was like floating into another world, unfamiliar and unpredictable.

  “Pyotr.”

  The word drifted, swirling and swaying in the air.

  “Papa,” Pyotr yelled, “Papa.”

  Out of the wall of white loomed a tall figure in a filthy coat, and at his side hobbled a small gray horse.

  “Papa,” Pyotr tried to shout again, but this time the word choked in his throat.

  He flew into his father’s arms, burrowed his face into the icy jacket, and listened to his heart. It was real. Beating fast. The cloth of the jacket smelled strange, and the beard on his face felt prickly, but it was his Papa. The big strong familiar hands gripped him hard, held him so close Pyotr couldn’t speak.

  “What’s going on here?” his father demanded over Pyotr’s head.

  “We’ve been expecting you,” the gypsy responded.

  Mikhail gently disentangled one hand from his son and held it out to Rafik. The gypsy grasped it with a fervor that took Pyotr by surprise.

  “Thank you, Mikhail,” Rafik murmured. Not even the chill moan of the wind could conceal the joy in his voice.

  Then for the first time Pyotr noticed the person behind his father, and the blood rushed to his face.

  “Sofia!” he gasped.

  “Hello, Pyotr.” She smiled at him.

  Her face was painfully thin, and her eyes were different somehow. Was she furious with him for what he had done?

  “You look well,” she said.

  He could hear no trace of anger in her voice, just a warmth that defied the cold around them. She was grinning at him.

  “Did you miss us?” she asked.

  “I missed your jokes.”

  She laughed, and his father ruffled his hair under the fur hat, but his look was serious. “Pyotr, we’ve brought Sofia’s friend back with us.”

  He gestured at a dark shape lying on the horse. It was strapped on the animal’s back, skin as gray as the horse’s coat, but the figure moved and struggled to sit up. At once Pyotr saw it was a young woman.

  “We have to get her out of the cold,” Papa said quickly.

  Sofia moved close to the horse’s side and placed a hand firmly on the rider’s leg. It looked to Pyotr more like a wispy stick than a leg.

  “Hold on, Anna, just a few minutes more. We’re here now, here in Tivil, and soon you’ll be . . .”

  The young woman’s eyes were glazed, and Pyotr wasn’t sure she was even hearing Sofia’s words. She attempted to nod but failed and slumped forward once more on the horse’s neck. Sofia draped an arm around her thin shoulders.

  “Quickly, bistro.”

  Rafik and Zenia led the way, heads ducked against the swirling snowflakes that stung the eyes. Pyotr and Mikhail started to follow as fast as they could, with Mikhail leading the little gray mare, Sofia at its side, holding the sick young woman on its back. Pyotr could hear his father’s labored breathing, felt the effort each step took, so he seized the reins from his hand and tucked himself under Papa’s arm, bearing some of his weight. The horse dragged at every forward pace, and Pyotr was suddenly frightened for it. Please, don’t let it collapse right here in the snow.

  The sky was darkening and Pyotr could sense the village huddling deep in its valley, shutting out the world beyond. Something stirred inside him, something strong and possessive, and he tightened his grip on his father, but instead of stopping at his own house, the little procession continued right past it. The snow underfoot was loose and slippery.

  “Where are we going, Papa?”

  But his father didn’t speak until they stood outside the izba that belonged to the chairman, which stood hunched under its coat of snow, shutters closed and smoke billowing from its chimney.

  “Aleksei Fomenko!” Mikhail bellowed against the wind. He didn’t bother knocking on the black door. “Aleksei Fomenko, get out here.”

  Pyotr jumped when the door slammed open and the tall figure of the chairman strode out into the snow in no more than his shirt-sleeves, the wolfhound a shadow behind him.

  “Comrade Pashin, so you’ve decided to return. I didn’t expect to see—”

  His stern eyes skimmed over Mikhail and Pyotr, past the gypsies, and came to an abrupt halt on Sofia. His jaw seemed to jerk as if he’d been hit. Then his gaze shifted to the wretched horse. No one spoke. Fomenko was the first to move. Hurriedly he opened the small gate, ran over to the horse, and, working fast but with great care, he untied the straps.

  “Anna?” he whispered.

  She raised her head. For a moment her eyes were blank and glazed, but snowflakes settled on her lashes, forcing her to blink.

  “Anna,” he said again.

  Gradually life trickled back into her eyes. She pushed herself to sit up and stared at Fomenko, as though uncertain whether her mind was confusing her.

  “Vasily, are you real? Or another ghost of the storm?”

  He took her mittened hand in his and pressed it to his cold cheek. “I’m real enough, as real as the sleigh I built for you and as real as the songs you sang for me. I still hear them when the wind blows through the valley.”

  “Vasily,” she sobbed, “Vasily.”

  She struggled to climb off the horse, but Fomenko lifted her from the saddle as gently as if he were handling a kitten, and cradled her in his arms away from the driving snow. Her head lay on his chest and he kissed her dull lifeless hair, then turned to face Sofia and Mikhail.

  “I’ll care for her,” he said. “I’ll buy
the best medicines and make her well again.”

  “Why?” Sofia asked. “Why now and not before?”

  Fomenko looked down at the pale woman in his arms, and his whole face softened. He spoke so quietly that the wind almost snatched his words away.

  “Because she’s here.”

  Sofia’s cheeks were wet, and Pyotr didn’t know if it was snow or tears.

  Fomenko turned away from the watching group. At a steady pace, so as not to jar her fragile bones, with the dog walking ahead of him over the snow, he carried Anna into his house in Tivil.

  THE air was warm. That was the first thing Anna absorbed. Her bones had lost that agonizing ache and seemed to be melting from inside, they felt so soft and comfortable. She opened her eyes.

  She’d forgotten what it was like to feel like this, so warm, so cosseted,a downy pillow under her head, a clean-smelling sheet pulled up to her neck. No brittle ice like jagged glass in her lungs. She tried breathing, a swift swallow of the warm air.

  Bearable.

  Her gaze explored the room, sliding with slow consideration over the curtains, the chair, the carpet, the shirts hanging on hooks, all full of color. Color. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed it. In the gulag everything was gray. A small sigh of exquisite pleasure escaped her, a faint sound, but it was enough. Instantly a whining started up outside the bedroom door and brought her back to reality.

  Whose house was she in?

  Mikhail’s? Or . . . No. She shook her head and felt a pain like acid etch into her brain. No, it wasn’t Mikhail’s. Only dimly did she recall being carried in a pair of strong arms, but she knew exactly whose bed she was lying in and whose dog was whining at the door.

  THE latch lifted quietly. Anna’s heart stopped, but her eyes hungrily sought out the figure standing in the shadow of the door. He was tall and very still, holding himself stiffly, and in a flash of nerves she wondered whether the stiffness was mental or physical. His shirt fitted closely across his wide chest but hung loose at the hips, and his hair was cropped hard to his head.

  Vasily. It was Vasily, with the Dyuzheyev forehead, the same long aristocratic nose, but the once-generous mouth was now held tight in a firm line. The same eyes, she remembered those gray swirling eyes. At his heel stood a large rough-coated wolfhound, and Anna recalled Sofia telling her its name.