The Red Scarf

by Kate Furnivall

  “Hope,” she breathed. It was easier than saying Vasily.

  The dog loped toward her, its claws clipping the wooden floor, and nuzzled her hand, and that simple display of affection seemed to persuade Vasily at last to walk into the room. But there was something deliberately formal in his step, and he came no nearer than the end of the bed.

  He spoke first. “How are you feeling?”

  His voice was controlled, and deeper than it used to be, but she could still hear the young Vasily in it, and it sent a shiver of pleasure through her.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Are you cold? Do you need another quilt?”

  “No. I’m warm, thank you.”

  Another awkward silence.

  “Are you hungry?”

  She smiled. “Ravenous.”

  He nodded and though he didn’t move away, his eyes did. They looked at the dog’s shaggy head now resting on the quilt, at the round wooden knobs at each corner of the bed, at the white-painted wall, at the window and a gust of snowflakes careening across the yard outside. Anywhere but at her.

  “You look well, Vasily,” she said softly.

  He studied his own strong hands, but said nothing.

  This time she let the silence stay. She didn’t know what was happening, and her mind felt too weak to struggle with it. Was he angry at her for coming here? For risking his position as chairman of the kolkhoz? Who could blame him? She didn’t want him to be angry, of course she didn’t, but at the same time in an odd way it didn’t matter if he was. This was what mattered. Being here. Gazing at the way his gray eyes had sparked—was it anger or delight?—as he stepped into the room.

  She reveled in the long lean lines of his body and the familiar set of his head on the broad shoulders. The only thing she missed was his hair, the way a soft tumble of brown straw used to fall across his high forehead and make him look . . . look what? She smiled. Lovable. These shorn hard spikes of hair belonged to a different Vasily.

  He saw the smile. Even though he wasn’t looking at her, he still was aware of the smile and she saw him move closer. She felt choked by the intensity of the pleasure of breathing the same air he was breathing and by the wave of love that engulfed her. So much was unsaid. And she felt no need to say it. Just looking at him was enough.

  Abruptly, when she least expected it, he turned and disappeared from the room. She had no idea whether he was gone five minutes or five hours, but when she again opened her eyes he was sitting in a chair beside her bed, so close she could see the shadows that lined his eyes and a tiny web of lines beginning at the tight corners of his mouth.

  “Here, time to eat.”

  In his hands lay a bowl of soup. Steam rose from it and brushed his chin, and she couldn’t take her eyes from that strong square underpinning of his face.

  “Eat,” he said again.

  She tried to sit up and failed, so she struggled at least to lift her head higher on the pillow. She was shocked to find herself so weak. Everything ached. Even that little movement of her head set off more coughing, and when she’d finished gasping for breath he wiped a damp cloth across her lips, studied the red smear on it with a frown, and put the cloth aside. He looked at her intently.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine,” she whispered.

  For a brief moment a faint ironic smile tilted one side of his mouth.

  “Fine,” he repeated, “just fine.”

  He lifted the spoon from the bowl and raised it to her lips. Willingly she parted them and felt the thick aromatic liquid flow down into her starved stomach.

  “It’s wonderful,” she murmured.

  “Only a few mouthfuls now. More later.”

  “But I’m—”

  “No, your body can’t take much yet, Anna.”

  Anna.

  It was the first time he’d spoken her name. She badly wanted him to say it again.

  “Thank you . . . Vasily.”

  His eyes sought and held hers. “My name is no longer Vasily. I am called Aleksei Fomenko now. It’s important that you call me that. I’m putting it about in the village that you are . . .”

  But he stopped, unable to finish. His eyes were fixed on her face and she could see a thousand thoughts and questions racing through their dark gray depths, but none that she could decipher. Suddenly she was acutely conscious of what she must look like to him, a skeletal jumble of bones in a nightdress, with skin as lifeless as ash and weeping sores on . . .

  Nightdress?

  Who had taken her out of her filthy rags? Who had clothed her in this virginal white nightdress? Instantly she was sure it was Vasily himself. He’d undressed her and bathed her and seen the sickening state of her, and the thought sent a hot surge of shame through her. He seemed to read the thoughts in her head and he put down the bowl, reached out a hand, and rested the tips of his fingers on her bare throat.

  “Anna,” he said in a low voice, “I can feel your heart pumping. You—” His breath caught, and for a long moment there was only the wind rattling the window pane and Vasily’s finger brushing her throat. “You are even more beautiful than I remembered.”

  “Vasily!”

  As his name burst out of her mouth she saw something break inside him. And suddenly his arms were around her and he was sitting on the bed holding her to his chest, rocking her, crushing her tight against himself, as though he would press her deep inside his bones.

  “Anna,” he whispered over and over again, “Anna, my Anna.” He kissed her hot forehead and caressed her filthy lank hair. “Forgive me.”

  “For what?”

  “For not coming.”

  She touched the hard line of his jaw with her lips. “You’re here now.”

  “I made a promise,” Vasily explained.

  “To whom?”

  “To Lenin.” He shook his head. “Not in person, of course, but to the bronze statue of him in Leningrad. After I came back from the civil war”—he shuddered at the memory, and Anna felt his heart thud behind his ribs—“and couldn’t find you, though I scoured the city endlessly for news of you, I swore I would become the perfect Soviet citizen, dedicating my life to Lenin’s ideals, if—”

  She lifted a finger and touched his lips. She could feel the blood pulsing inside them. “Hush, Vasily, there’s no need to explain.”

  “Yes, I want you to understand. I dedicated my life to Communism. I even spilled some of my blood and wrote the promise in red to seal the bargain, in return for . . .”

  "For what?”

  “In return for Lenin’s spirit keeping you safe.”

  Anna gasped. He stroked her gaunt cheek.

  “I kept my word,” he murmured into her hair, “all these years. When I did help people escape from the authorities, it was because they were the intellectual building blocks who would be needed to strengthen Russia.” He drew a deep breath and said fiercely, “I kept my word.”

  “Even when Sofia came and begged.”

  “Yes, even then.”

  “To make sure my heart kept beating?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, Vasily.”

  They clung to each other, motionless, his arms cradling her. Neither spoke for a long time.

  ANNA slept. She had no sense of time. Just moments slotted into her feverish mind. At intervals she woke and Vasily was there, always there, feeding her spoonfuls of soup and finely shredded red meat, or dosing her with foul-tasting medicines. He talked to her by the hour, and she listened.

  “Wake up.”

  Anna had dozed off again into a disturbed world of nightmares, but opened her eyes swiftly the instant she heard the sound of Sofia’s voice.

  “Wake up,” Sofia said again. “Every time I come to see you, you’re fast asleep.”

  She was perched on the side of the bed, wearing a wool dress the color of dark lavender, and there was a wide smile on her beautiful face.

  “I can’t believe how much better you look already,” Sofia announced. �
��And you’ve only been here a week. How’s the coughing?”

  Anna pulled a face. “Give me time. I know you planned for us to move somewhere safer, but . . .”

  Sofia took her friend’s hand in hers and gently chafed it. “You have all the time in the world now.”

  “Thanks to you.”

  “And to Mikhail. I couldn’t have done it without him.”

  “Yes. And to your Mikhail. Thank you both.”

  Their eyes met, two differing blues, and something passed between them at that moment, a knowledge of what Sofia had done but also an agreement never to talk of it again. Words were too small to voice what lay deep inside them both.

  Instead Anna asked, “Has Mikhail spoken to Vas—I mean Aleksei about the killing of his father and Aleksei’s mother that day at the Dyuzheyevs’ villa?”

  “Yes. They’ll never be friends, but now they’re prepared not to be enemies. It’s a first step.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  Sofia nodded and smiled. “Give me a hug, you skinny lazybones.”

  Anna struggled to sit up, and immediately a spasm of coughing racked her brittle chest. Sofia held her safely until the shuddering ceased, and Anna could smell the clean soapy fragrance of her blond hair and the freshness of her skin. When the spasm was finally over she insisted on sitting up.

  “Wash my hair, Sofia.”

  “It’ll exhaust you.”

  “Please, Sofia. For me.”

  “For him, you mean,” Sofia said with a ripple of laughter that set her eyes alight.

  “Yes,” Anna whispered, as she entwined her arms around the tall young woman on her bed. “For Vasily.”

  SIXTY-TWO

  SOFIA was in the icy backyard of Mikhail’s izba when Priest Logvinov arrived. It was just as she was stacking logs from the woodpile into her arms that he lurched around the corner of the cottage and called her name.

  “Sofia.”

  Then again, louder.

  “Sofia!”

  She’d always known this day would come. That this man would somehow be involved in the disaster that she could sense breathing, snuffling and snarling, circling around the village of Tivil. The way a wolf nips and nudges at the heels of a moose before bringing it down, blood-streaked, in the snow.

  She dropped the logs to the ground and turned to face him.

  “What is it, Priest?”

  He was draped in a threadbare coat that reached down to his ankles and a black shapka with earflaps, but his green eyes and flame-colored hair flashed like summer lightning. He was breathless, and Sofia realized he’d been running.

  “They’re coming,” he shouted, though she was no more than a few feet from him.

  “Who are they?”

  “Ask Rafik.”

  “Where is he?”

  He waved a long scarecrow arm. “Out there.”

  “Show me.”

  She ran into the house and pulled on the thick coat the gypsy girl had made for her return.

  “Mikhail,” she called urgently, “someone is coming. Rafik is waiting outside.”

  He lifted his head from the intricate work of rebuilding the model bridge, and his calm gaze immediately steadied her. One look at her and he rose to his feet; two strides and his arms were around her.

  “You don’t have to go, Sofia.”

  “I do.”

  “You have a choice.”

  She nodded her head with a quick intake of breath. “Yes, we could leave instead. You, me, and Pyotr. Right now. We could grab a few things and escape into the forest and head south like we planned and—”

  “Is that what you want, my love? Is it really what you came back for?”

  Their eyes held, a long, sweet, complicated moment. She leaned against him, her whole body molding itself to his, her forehead resting on his cheekbone, and she felt the fear and panic drain from where they had been squeezing her lungs.

  “Hurry, Sofia.” It was the priest’s voice outside.

  She tilted back her head to look up into Mikhail’s face, her arms still looped around his waist. It felt thinner than it used to be but still strong.

  “Will you come?” she asked.

  “You don’t have to ask.”

  He kissed her, hard and possessive, then released her, and she trailed a soft finger along the line of his mouth.

  “We’ll do this together,” she whispered.

  A figure in a padded coat appeared at her side.

  “And me.” It was Pyotr.

  MORE horses are coming,” Rafik said, his black eyes closed as he searched for them inside his mind. "Four of them.”

  The group was gathered on the packed snow. Above them spread the large cedar tree at the start of the village where the valley began to widen. Fingers of white fog wreathed its branches and slithered down to clutch at the eight figures beneath it, brushing their chill cheeks and soaking their hair until it glistened. By the time Priest Logvinov led Sofia and Mikhail, with Pyotr determinedly rushing ahead of them, to where Rafik and his daughter were staring out into the shapeless distance, the sky had slid down from the ridge and closed in around them; the fog had claimed the valley for itself.

  Sofia was surprised to find Elizaveta Lishnikova and the blacksmith standing shoulder to shoulder beside the gypsies, Elizaveta in stern gray, Pokrovsky in menacing black. Their silent presence here meant only one thing: Rafik was going to need help. She slid her hand into her pocket and let her fingers fret at the cold white stone that lay there. The priest raised his arm and painted the sign of the cross in the cold white air.

  “Four horsemen,” he announced. “May God have mercy on our souls. You understand what that means?”

  “What does it mean, Sofia?” Pyotr asked impatiently. “What does it mean? Who are the four horsemen?”

  “Hush, Pyotr,” Zenia hissed.

  “They’re soldiers,” Rafik said.

  “Why are soldiers coming to Tivil?” Pyotr asked.

  But instead of replying, Rafik suddenly fixed his gaze on Zenia, and he asked her softly, “Is it you who brings them here?”

  “No, Rafik,” she cried out. “I didn’t, I swear I didn’t.” Her black eyes glittered, and her hands stretched out to her father.

  Gently he enfolded them in his.

  “I always knew it would happen.” The sorrow in Rafik’s quiet voice seemed to melt the frigid air around him. “I knew that betrayal would come, but”—his lips smiled at her tenderly, and he raised her hands to them—“but I could not see it would be you, my daughter. My love for you stood in the way of my Sight.”

  "Rafik, no, no.”

  He pressed his lips to her cold forehead just as the jangle of horses’ bridles and the creak of stiff leather came upon them.

  “Rafik, forgive me. I meant no harm.” Zenia clung to him. “A careless word to Vanya, that’s all it was, I didn’t mean it. You know how I love you. I even torched the barn last summer to distract the troops from ransacking Tivil and causing you pain. Please forgive me, I—”

  “Hush, my beloved daughter. There’s nothing to forgive.” He opened his arms to her.

  She kissed his cheek.

  Priest Logvinov lifted his stricken face to the heavens, stretched out his arms like a cross, and roared, “See her give the kiss, oh Lord. See, here among us is the sign of Judas.”

  FOUR shapes emerged from the white confusion of the fog. Men on horseback, bulky in their greatcoats and high leather boots, determined men who knew their own power. They were OGPU. The officer in the lead was scanning the group standing in the snow, a hard arrogant scrutiny, his collar turned up against the cold and a calming hand laid on the neck of his pale-coated horse. Sofia didn’t like the horse. It had small wild eyes.

  “Do any of you know the man named Rafik Ilyan?” the officer demanded.

  “I am Rafik Ilyan.”

  The other three horsemen dismounted. Sofia saw the teacher immediately link hands with the blacksmith and the priest. Zenia joined th
em, and they stood facing outward in a circle around Rafik.

  “We are here to arrest you, Rafik Ilyan.”

  “No.” The word tore out of Pyotr’s mouth before Mikhail could stop him.

  The officer glanced at him with irritation. “Get home to your mother, boy, if you don’t want a thrashing.”

  “I have no mother.”

  “You have Mother Russia.”

  “Comrade,” Elizaveta spoke in her calm, reasonable voice, “I think there has been some mistake. Rafik Ilyan is a loyal member of our village.”

  “Why is he under arrest?” Pokrovsky demanded.

  “No mistake.”

  “My father has done nothing wrong.” Tears were running down Zenia’s cheeks.

  The priest glared at the intruders, his lips moving in silent prayer.

  The officer smiled, satisfied, and nodded at his men. “Arrest the gypsy, then search his house.”

  They came for him, and it was Zenia who broke the circle first. She threw herself toward the officer, clung to his horse’s bridle, and begged.

  “Please don’t. This is all wrong, a mistake. I didn’t mean to tell Vanya anything . . .”

  The horse tossed its head viciously, sending Zenia flying on the trampled snow. Sofia ran to her, crouched down, and put an arm around her shoulders, though the sharp hooves danced close.

  “This isn’t right,” she said accusingly.

  “Not right?” The officer chuckled, his expression so amiable she thought for a moment he was agreeing with her, but the chuckle ceased abruptly. “We have information that Rafik Ilyan has been conducting anti-Soviet activities. Arrest him.”

  “What exactly is he accused of?” Mikhail demanded.

  “I have already said. Anti-Soviet activities.”

  “That’s nonsense,” Sofia said sharply. But she turned with an abrupt movement away from the officer and closed the gap between herself and the gypsy. Her eyes pleaded with him.

  “Rafik, help yourself,” she murmured.

  He shook his head. “I have no power to help myself, child of the stone. I can only help others.”

  Sofia reached quickly into her coat and drew out the plain white pebble.