“Put him down,” a woman’s voice chuckled just behind Lydia. “Stop mauling him. That Cossack is mine.”
It was Elena.
ALEXEI PUSHED THE TIP OF HIS KNIFE INTO THE BOTTOM OF HIS boot and twisted. Nothing happened.
Chyort! He was too damn weak even to flick the heel off a shoe. He dropped the knife and sank down with relief on the rain-soaked grass, indifferent to the chill and the wet creeping through his coat. Since leaving the boat he’d walked north through the flatlands, following the line of the river, forcing his legs to march hour after hour. Only now did he allow himself to collapse onto the riverbank.
He was drenched in sweat despite the bitter wind that skidded off the surface of the water. Flecks of ice in the air nicked at his skin like minuscule ice picks. His mouth was dry as sand and his hands shaking. Up ahead appeared a village, its wooden cottages breathing out coils of smoke from metal chimney pipes, and the smell of cooked meat swirled on the wind. He needed money. Without it he wasn’t going to get far, which was why he was now hacking at his boot in an attempt to remove the heel.
Under a steel-gray sky he rested his cheek on the grass to cool the fire that was raging under his skin. Oh, Lydia. Damn it, just wait. Be patient. I’m coming back, I promise. He felt again the sudden rush of shame. He’d let her down. He forced himself upright and started in with the knife once more. He’d lost the money belt to that Felanka bastard, but safe inside the heel of each boot lay a neat roll of white rouble notes . . . not much, maybe, but enough to get him back to Felanka and to . . .
The heel popped off, hanging on by just one cobbler’s pin. Inside the gap he had specially created lay nothing. It was empty. Alexei stared at it. Shook the boot ferociously as if the money would materialize from some other hole. He snatched up the other boot and with one angry jab jerked the heel onto the grass. Empty. He didn’t even bother to shake it this time.
Cold despair slid into his gut. He tried to think straight. The coat? He twisted out of it and sliced the knife into the hem, into the collar, into the cuffs. All empty. All gone. No roubles, no silver dollars. No hope of buying his father’s freedom.
He bent to one side and vomited last night’s fish onto the grass.
“Oh, Konstantin, you bastard, you thieving fucking bastard. You . . .”
Rage robbed him of words. He knew it was over. He lifted the knife. Without hesitation he cut through the material of his trousers and stabbed the blade into the spot high on his thigh where there was already a rough scar. A flow of blood spilled down over the pale muscle to form a pool on the grass. Using the knife tip he extracted something small and hard, covered in blood, from within the flesh and put it into his mouth. When he spat it out onto his palm, it was clean. A diamond. Too small to be worth much. Even less in a dog-shit place like this. But hopefully enough to get him to Felanka.
It was the last. There was nothing left after this.
He cut a strip off the bandage on his side and knotted it tightly around his thigh. Blood still oozed, but Alexei ignored it. He welcomed the pain in the wound at each step. It deadened that other pain, the one in his chest, the one that was trying to suffocate him as he limped into the village.
“1908?”
“Yes, that’s what it said. The stones spelled out Nyet and 1908.” Lydia frowned and turned to Elena. “I don’t understand what it means. What happened in 1908?”
On the train back to Felanka she had cudgeled her brain into trying to work out the significance of the number. 1908. But however meticulously she trawled through her knowledge of Russian history, nothing came to mind that made the slightest bit of sense.
“1908?” Elena asked again. “Are you sure it wasn’t 1905? That’s when the first revolution started in St. Petersburg with the Bloody Sunday massacre. Maybe it’s telling you he’s in St. Petersburg.”
“No, it was definitely an eight, not a five. I’m sure of it. 1908.”
They were walking back from the station and had stopped at a roadside stall that sold hot pirozhki to passersby. Lydia was holding her hands out to the heat of the brazier, eyeing Popkov’s broad uncommunicative back as he waited for the little pies to be fried. Since leaving the station he hadn’t spoken to her. She stamped her feet on the hard compacted snow, frustrated by his silence and by the cryptic message from the camp. She rubbed her gloves together hard to bring blood to her fingers and turned to Elena. “The Tunguska event happened in 1908, didn’t it, the explosion over Siberia?”
“Da, but I don’t see a connection.”
“Neither do I, except that it flattened millions of trees, just like the prisoners are doing.” She looked at the older woman hopefully. “I thought you might think of something.”
Elena shook her head regretfully. “Yet it must be obvious or they wouldn’t have left you that message. Can you think of any connection to yourself ?”
“No, it’s four years before I was born.”
“And your parents?”
“They weren’t married then, but they both lived in St. Petersburg. Do you think it’s referring to something that happened in St. Petersburg that year?”
“Like what?”
They stared at each other blankly and shook their heads.
Popkov took a bite out of one of the pirozhki and breathed hot air at the two women as he thrust a pie at each of them.
“It’s not a date,” he growled and turned to the pie seller for more.
“What?” Lydia demanded.
“You heard.”
She prodded his back. “What do you mean, it’s not a date?”
He shoveled another pie into his mouth. How could he do that without burning his tongue?
“How do you know it’s not a date?”
Popkov lumbered around to face her, and she could still feel his anger at her, bristling on his clothes and lurking in his thick shaggy beard. She wanted to tell him she was sorry, to promise she wouldn’t stray again. But she couldn’t do it.
“Tell me, Liev,” she said softly, “if 1908 isn’t a date, what is it?”
He glared at her and plucked at his eye patch with a greasy finger. “When the prison guards are drunk, they blurt out things. I’ve heard from several of them about the places so secret the authorities don’t give them names, just numbers. 1908 is one of them. I’ve heard it mentioned.”
“So what is it?”
“It’s a secret prison.”
“A secret prison?” The bones of Lydia’s face seemed to freeze.
“Da. I have no idea where, except that it’s somewhere in Moscow.”
Lydia seized the front of his coat and hugged it to her. “Then that’s where we’ll go. To Moscow.”
Eighteen
THE SILENCE. THE STILLNESS. THE SAMENESS. They rob you. Steal your sense of self.
In a set of bright basement rooms deep under the streets of Moscow, a tall man leaned over a clutch of technical drawings spread out over the surface of his desk and for a moment wondered whether he was dead or alive. Sometimes he couldn’t tell.
Week by week, the days scarcely varied. The electric light was never switched off and the concept of darkness became a luxury he craved. He worked at his desk whenever he chose, whenever he could concentrate his mind, unaware of time or routine. Right now, was it day or night? He had no idea. He released the pair of calipers from his hand and let them clatter onto the wooden surface of the desk, just to hear a noise of some kind other than the hum of the hot-water pipes that trailed along the walls.
He rested his chin on his hand. What were other people doing? Eating? Singing? Best of all, talking? He allowed his mind to create a world up there above his head, a city where snow fell onto its golden church domes in a thick lacy curtain. Where sounds were muffled and there was the swish of greased runners, and hopeful young street urchins touted firewood for sale, hauling it along the gutters on sledges.
Moscow was alive above him. Living and laughing. He could smell the dough in the ovens and taste the sour
cream on his tongue . . . but only in his dreams. In his waking hours there was nothing but silence, stillness and sameness.
“SO YOU HAVE A DAUGHTER.”
Jens Friis made no response. He was sharpening a pencil when the guard rattled his keys, unlocked the heavy metal door, and entered the workroom with a grimace on his face. It was the fat one, Poliakov. He wasn’t so bad. Better than some of the other bastards. And this one liked to talk, even if it was just to poke and prod the prisoners out of their carefully constructed shells. Jens didn’t mind that. He’d developed a knack of letting the taunts slide past and responding with comments that sometimes succeeded in enticing the warder into conversation.
But this. So you have a daughter. This was different.
He sat back in his seat, a padded comfortable armchair in which he did most of his thinking, and showed no hint of surprise.
“What do you mean, Poliakov?”
“Your daughter.”
“You’ve got it wrong. I have no family. They were lost in the terrors of 1917.”
The guard leaned against the door frame, his belly straining at the buttons of his shirt, his round brown eyes full of amusement. That was a bad sign.
“No daughter?”
“Nyet,” Jens repeated.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” But his heart stopped.
Poliakov pulled out a cigarette, lit it with a match that he dropped on the floor, and took a long drag on it before letting loose a conspiratorial smile. “Now what’s the point of lying to me, Friis? I thought I was your friend.”
At least here they were called by their names. In the camp it had been just impersonal numbers. Jens dismissed the guard’s words as another attempt to provoke him, so he refused to rise to the bait.
“Any chance of a smoke?” he asked instead.
“I tell you, Friis, you’re going to love listening to this. Your daughter has turned up at your last camp, it seems. Don’t look so shocked. She’s searching for you in the wrong place, thousands of miles away from here. Isn’t that funny?” He chuckled at first, but when he saw the expression on his prisoner’s face, he burst out laughing. “What chance does a stupid kid have of tracing you here?”
What chance?
Jens wanted to strangle him, to squeeze that thick lardy neck. He stood up abruptly, and as he did so a flash of fiery curls roared into his brain. A dainty heart-shaped face. A mischievous smile that could pulverize his heart. Lydia? Is it you? My Lydia?
Could it really be her?
Sweat broke out on his skin. Was his daughter alive? After all these years that he’d believed her dead. And his wife?
“Oh, dear God, let my beautiful Valentina be alive. Let my little Lydia be . . .” He choked.
For twelve long barren years he’d lived without them, without even the memory of the two people he had loved most in the world. Because to think of them, of their smiles and their clear voices, would destroy him. So for twelve lonely years he’d lived without love and without hope. Only now when Poliakov said so slyly, She’s searching for you, did the images of the moment he lost them come crashing back into his head.
He pictured once more the icy wasteland of Siberia, white and monotonous. The gray frozen slats of the cattle wagons that were packed with fear and fury, as the train with its cargo of fleeing White Russians growled its way across Russia in search of freedom. Valentina’s breath on his cheek, the weight of their child asleep in his arms. Then came the rifles, the men on horseback with hate in their eyes, the cries as the women and children were snatched from the train by the Bolsheviks. In flashes he recalled again the pitiless gaze of the Red Army commander as the men were herded away to be shot. Valentina’s eyes huge with an agony of despair. Lydia’s thin piercing scream. The terror spread around them as solid as the frozen snow under their feet.
He jerked his mind away from that moment, the way he would jerk his hand away from red hot metal.
“Valentina?” he whispered.
“Who the fuck is Valentina?” Poliakov snapped.
Jens suddenly hated this guard, loathed and detested him for enticing hope back into his life. Hope was dead. Long ago he had slain it, a many-headed monster that made life in the prisons unbearable. But now it had risen from the dead to torment him again. The pencil in his hand snapped.
Nineteen
“SHE’S NOT HERE.”
“When did she leave?” Alexei asked.
“A while ago.”
“A week? A month? Longer?”
The concierge shook her head unhelpfully. She was a sturdy comrade who took her job seriously. “I don’t keep track of everyone’s movements, you know.”
I bet you do, comrade. I bet that’s exactly what you do.
But she wasn’t going to share the information with him. He couldn’t blame her. He looked a mess; his filthy clothes and unshaven appearance didn’t exactly inspire confidence.
“I’m her brother.”
“So?”
“I was delayed elsewhere. I thought she’d still be here in Felanka.”
“Well, she’s not.”
“Did she leave anything? A note perhaps?”
“Nyet.”
Alexei rested his elbows on her desk and leaned so far forward it occurred to him that she might think he was trying to kiss her. He smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. “I believe she did,” he said evenly.
The woman thought about that. “I’ll check.”
She backed away, rummaged in a drawer, and, after a show of considerable effort, produced an envelope. Scrawled across it in large looping letters was his name, Alexei Serov. He realized he’d never seen his sister’s handwriting before in all the time they’d been traveling together. It surprised him. It was bold—but that much he would have guessed. What he hadn’t expected was the softness within it, the uncertain ends to the words and a carefulness in the forming of the capital S. Oh, Lydia. Where the hell are you? Why didn’t you wait?
His fear was that she’d gone to the camp and been arrested.
“And the man we were with? The big—”
“I remember him.” For the first time she smiled, and it made her almost pretty. “He’s gone too. They went together.”
Her memory was improving, so he decided to try again. “I left a bag in my room. Is it . . . ?”
“Any possessions remaining in the room are kept for three days and then sold to cover any unpaid rent.”
“But I’m sure my sister would have paid anything owing.”
The woman shrugged carelessly. She was growing bored.
“Thank you,” he said politely and smiled at her. “Spasibo.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Could you make sure my bag is not also hidden away somewhere and forgotten?” He said it pleasantly enough, but one look at his eyes made her hesitate as she started to shake her head. She moved over to a dark cubicle behind her, disappeared for no more than one minute, and returned empty-handed.
“Nyet,” she said. “Neechevo. Nothing.”
“Thank you, comrade. For your . . . help.”
My dear Alexei,
I’m writing in the hope that you may return here to Felanka. I want you to find this letter. I waited for you, Alexei. Three whole weeks—with no word. But you didn’t come back. Where are you? I swing between being frantic with worry one moment and angry with you for deserting me the next. Don’t you care if you hurt me?
To practical matters:
1. I enclose some money. In case you are in any trouble.
2. Your bag is missing from your room. So I must assume you planned your leaving. Popkov has haunted the bars to hear any word of you, but no one is saying anything. Maybe they know nothing.
3. Now for the big one. I am going to Moscow. With Popkov and Elena. I’m not sure about Elena, why she is sticking so close, but she and my beloved bear seem to have taken a liking to each other.
4. Why Moscow? Papa is there. Think about it, Alexei. Papa in
Moscow, not in a coal mine. I could cry with joy. I was given a number—1908. I thought it was a date. It’s not. Popkov tells me it is the number of a secret prison in Moscow. Thank God for Popkov.
We leave by train today. I wish you were with us. Take good care of yourself, my only brother. If you find this letter and decide to come to Moscow, meet me at noon outside the Cathedral of Christ the Redeemer. I’ll try to be waiting there each day.
From your sister with love—and fury,
Lydia
“Niko.”
The blond young truck driver lifted his head from his copy of Pravda and regarded Alexei with interest. He had the kind of eyes that would always be interested. In anything.
“What can I do for you?” He tossed his newspaper into the cab of his truck and watched as Alexei approached.
Alexei had tracked him to an open concrete yard alongside the road to the foundry. Drivers gathered there with their trucks, waiting in line to make deliveries or to collect a new load from the iron-works, and the line was sometimes so long that a stall supplying kvass had been erected and another selling chai and blinis beside it.
“Let me buy you a drink,” Alexei offered, and gestured to the stalls.
Niko grinned. “I’d prefer vodka.”
“So would I.” Alexei pulled a bottle from his pocket. He took a swig from it himself and handed it across to Niko, who did the same.
The day was dull, the cold not as intense as a month ago, and snow was shoveled into oily mounds round the edge of the yard. For a moment Alexei held his breath, considering the risk he was about to take. He had to judge his man well. He was in no doubt that OGPU secret police had informers in every corner of Felanka. When a handsome bird suddenly rose from somewhere downriver, a Siberian crane spreading its black-tipped wings and circling effortlessly above the truck yard like an extra pair of eyes, Alexei laughed out loud. He turned to Niko and slapped him on the back.
The Girl from Junchow Page 16
