‘Do you have a key?’
He took a long pull on his cigarette. ‘I might.’
She stared at him coldly. ‘I dropped a key of my own at the meeting. It got lost in the stampede and I need to look for it, that’s all.’
‘What value do you put on this key of yours?’ he asked, smiling his toothy smile. ‘Worth a kiss?’
His words echoed in a cold cave inside her mind. Here’s a crust of mouldy bread. Worth a kiss? Here’s a scrap of felt for gloves. Worth a kiss? Here’s a pat of butter. Worth more than a kiss? How much more?
She brushed past Boris Zakarov without a word, only to run directly into Aleksei Fomenko himself. He was striding up from the low field by the river, a net of cabbages over his shoulder and a long-legged wolfhound at his side. He didn’t look pleased to see her idling on kolkhoz time.
First, know your enemy.
She’d learned that lesson well. Know him. And seek out his weak spot. More than anybody in the village, Aleksei Fomenko was the greatest threat to her. But his weak spot was well hidden.
His back was turned towards her as he opened the door to his house. His was a proud, muscular back that had no fear of turning on anybody - Sofia envied him that. From behind she studied the neatness of his ears, emphasised by the short cropping of his brown hair, and she felt certain his mind was equally neat. A line of sweat ran down the spine of his working man’s cotton shirt. Why on earth did this Chairman of a large collective farm concentrate so hard on being a common peasant? What was driving him?
‘Have you registered?’
His manner was curt, but the look he gave her was again one of sharp interest. It occurred to her that he was a man more curious about others than he was willing to admit. Zenia had told her he wasn’t married, so Sofia wondered what his home was like. It was clear that he expected her to wait outside, but she didn’t. After the dog entered, its claws clicking on the wooden flooring, she followed him in.
‘Yes, I have registered,’ she said.
But her eyes darted quickly round the room she’d entered. Know your enemy. What did this lair tell her about the man? It was startlingly barren. Nothing on the walls, strictly no bourgeois frills or pretensions. A chair, a table, a stove, some shelves, and that was it. Chairman Fomenko obviously didn’t believe in pampering himself. Instead of a property of distinction worthy of a kolkhoz Chairman, the house was indistinguishable from any of the other village izbas. He kept the floor well-swept and the roof beams free of cobwebs. It was the house of a tidy mind. Or a secretive one.
No clues, except the dog. Sofia extended her hand. The animal touched her fingers with its damp black nose, and when it was satisfied, it allowed her to run a hand down its grey wire-brush coat. It was an elegant Russian wolfhound, a bitch with a narrow muzzle and soft brown eyes that gazed up at Sofia with an expression of such gentleness that she felt herself fall a little in love with the creature. But it was no more than a minute before the hound returned to its position next to Fomenko’s thigh and stayed there.
‘She’s beautiful,’ Sofia said. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Nadyezhda.’
‘Hope. An unusual name for a dog.’
He rested a hand on the hound’s head, fingers instinctively fondling one of its ears. He looked at Sofia as though about to explain the name, but after a second’s thought he made an abrupt turn and picked up a large iron key from a shelf of books at the rear of the room. It was too far away for Sofia to read any of the titles. He moved briskly now as though pressed for time, but when it came to handing over the key, he paused.
‘You lost something in the hall, you say?’
‘Yes. A key.’
‘I can’t spare time to help with a search myself, comrade, but if I give you the key to use, you must return it to the office as soon as you’ve finished with it.’
‘Of course.’
‘Then report to the potato brigades.’
‘I’ll work hard.’
Still he weighed the key in his hand. She had a feeling that, despite being short of time, he still had something to say to her. That made her nervous. He subjected her to a careful scrutiny, his grey eyes so intent that she had a sudden sense of the loneliness inside this man and of the effort he put into hiding it.
‘A tractor driver will be of great use to our kolkhoz next month when we start harvesting,’ he said thoughtfully.
‘I’m glad.’ She had no intention of still being in Tivil next month.
‘But everyone knows that a tractor driver can also inflict great damage to the crops if he or - more to the point - she chooses.’
‘Comrade Chairman, I am offering myself as a helper, not a wrecker.’
‘But it is significant that the moment you appear in Tivil, a barn burns down and sacks of grain go missing.’
Sofia’s pulse thudded in her throat. ‘It is a coincidence that someone else here is manipulating.’
‘Who?’
‘How do I know?’ she shrugged. ‘I’m new here.’
‘That is my point.’ He lifted the key and tapped it against the line of his jaw. ‘Come to the office at noon tomorrow. I’d like to ask you some questions.’
‘Chairman, I take exception to such a demand. I am here to give assistance to the kolkhoz of my uncle.’
His grey eyes caught her out. ‘In which case you won’t mind answering my questions, will you?’
‘Questions about what?’
‘About where you’ve come from. Who your parents were. About your family.’ He paused again and observed her closely as he added, ‘About your uncle.’
‘Uncle Rafik is not well.’
‘It’s interesting how often the gypsy is sick after the Procurement Officers have come calling in Tivil.’ He gave an ironic half-smile. ‘So often, in fact, that I’m beginning to wonder if there is a connection.’
‘I believe he grows sick at heart when he sees the village suffer.’
Fomenko didn’t like that, his mouth tightened. ‘He should be sick at heart at the thought of the men and women and children going hungry throughout our towns and cities. It is my job to make sure they don’t, by making this kolkhoz productive. We must help fulfil our Great Leader’s Plan.’
The pause he left demanded a patriotic response, but the words wouldn’t come to her tongue. Instead she held out her hand for the key.
The church was cool, hushed, as Sofia locked the door behind her. The sunlight slid through the windows in bright golden beams that captured the dust and strengthened the shadows. She breathed deeply, shocked to find she was shaking.
How could Fomenko have that effect on her, just by breathing the same air? She stared down at her palm and almost expected to see the imprint of his fingers there. But that was foolish, so she pushed it aside and looked around her. Gone were the icons, gone the mosaic images and the gold latticework that once lined the central nave. No candles, no collects to honour the Mother of God. The soul of the building had been painted over with stark white.
For a moment she was rooted there, wondering what her father would have made of it. Then she took a deep breath. That’s the way it is now. Accept it. Don’t waste time grieving for what can never be brought back. You’re here for Anna, only Anna. Now search this barren place, just like she told you to.
Quickly she sought out the bust of Josef Stalin’s head. It was easy to find, displayed prominently in a niche on the side wall, as Priest Logvinov had said. She stared with dislike at its lifeless eyes and arrogant chin, wanting to climb up there to give it the same treatment the Komsomol thugs had given St Peter.
No risks. Not now. Get on with the search.
First she examined the bricks beneath the niche. Her fingers traced the outline of each one, seeking a loose corner or some disturbed mortar that would indicate a hiding place. But no, the bricks were smooth. She traced them all the way to the floor with no success and then knelt on the boards and set to work, running a hand along each one, tapping it, picking at
its edges, testing if it would lift or rock unevenly. Nothing. Nothing at all. Except the cold lead of disappointment in her stomach. Frustrated, she crouched on the floor, elbows on her knees, and stared at the white wall. Where? Where was the hiding place? Maria had whispered to Anna that a secret box was concealed here, but where, damn it, where? Where would someone hide something they didn’t want found?
The oak door rattled. She leapt to her feet. Someone was trying to enter.
‘Comrade Morozova, are you in there?’ It was the Party man, the weasel man, the informer, Comrade Zakarov.
Quickly she scanned the wall beneath the head of Stalin one last time. A box buried at St Peter’s feet. That’s what she’d been told, but it was so little. Abruptly she dropped to her knees.
‘St Peter,’ she whispered, ‘grant me inspiration. Please, I’m begging. Isn’t that what you want, you and your God? Humility and supplication?’
Nothing came. No shaft of sunlight to point the way. Sofia nodded, as though she’d expected no less, and just then the door shook again, louder this time. ‘Comrade Morozova, I know you’re in there.’
What now?
She had to leave. She made her way up the central aisle and inserted the key in the lock. As she did so, a longing for Mikhail came with such force it took her breath from her.
‘Mikhail,’ she whispered, just to feel his name on her tongue.
He could help her. But would he? If she told him all she knew about Anna and his past and about what was hidden in the church, would he turn her away like a thief? He’d said he would help the right person but was she that right person? Was Anna? He was in a position of authority now and worked for the Soviet State system, he had a son whom he loved. Would he risk it all if she asked?
Would you, Mikhail, would you? You’d be insane to do so.
She straightened her shoulders and turned the key. If she asked for his help, she risked failure. And failure meant death. Not just her own.
30
Davinsky Camp July 1933
The cat crept into the camp out of nowhere. Its arrival occurred at the end of one of the fierce summer storms that were sweeping through the region. The small creature picked its way daintily round the puddles in the yard as if walking on eggshells. It was young and painfully thin, its bedraggled fur a sort of non-colour, neither grey nor brown but somewhere in between. But there was a jauntiness to it that attracted attention in a world where limbs were heavy and movements slow.
The women couldn’t help smiling. A group of them tried to encourage it into a corner but it looked at them with scornful green eyes and slipped effortlessly through their legs. It scampered straight into one of the huts, gazed with interest at the array of bunks and leapt up on to Anna’s. It nudged its bony little head against her arm and plunged its needle claws into her blanket, kneading with a steady rhythm that tore holes in the threadbare material. Anna touched its head, a light tentative brush of her fingertips over the damp fur, and immediately the young cat started to purr.
The loud rackety sound of it did something to Anna. Happiness sprang into her chest like something solid. She could feel it warm and contented in there, soothing the inflamed passages in her lungs. Like the cat, it seemed to have come from nowhere. She scratched a finger under the animal’s furry chin until it stretched out its neck with pleasure and watched her through half-closed eyes, totally content.
‘I’m sorry I have no food to give you, little one.’
Other prisoners were gathering round the bunk board.
‘It’s so pretty,’ one crooned.
‘It needs meat.’
‘Don’t we all!’
‘It’ll be riddled with fucking fleas,’ Tasha warned.
Anna laughed. ‘Fleas, bed bugs, mosquitoes, marsh flies - what’s the difference?’
The young animal suddenly hiccupped and everyone chuckled. Tasha put out a hand to stroke its soft fur. But at that moment one of the guard dogs outside barked and the cat hissed, flattening its ears, its sharp claws raking Tasha’s skin.
‘Fuck the little bastard!’
The cat shot off the bed, its hollow belly low to the floor, and disappeared out of the door in a flash. Several of the women chased after it.
‘I hope they eat the miserable piece of gristle,’ Tasha said, sucking at her hand.
‘Oh Tasha, that’s what this place does to us. I’m sure they will. Eat it, I mean. I just hope the poor little creature has enough sense to head straight for the barbed wire.’
‘Wouldn’t we all like to do that?’
‘Give me your hand. Here, this will help.’ She took Tasha’s hand between her own and pressed hard to stem the blood. The tiny needles had done no more than scrape the surface and the trickle soon stopped.
‘Thanks,’ Tasha said. She went over to the grimy window to watch the chase.
But Anna didn’t hear because she was staring blindly at the wall opposite. The brief sensation of a hand pressed hard against her own had already whisked her back to that day at the Dyuzheyev villa when the dancing had been stopped for ever by a light knock on the door.
‘No.’ Maria had hissed the word. ‘No, Anna.’
Twelve-year-old Anna had come hurtling out of the house, but her governess seized her with a grip that hurt and yanked her back on to the front steps, tight against her skirt. Maria placed one hand on Anna’s shoulder and the other gripped her hand. She was not going to let go.
‘Say nothing,’ she breathed, not taking her gaze from the group spread out on the drive in front of her.
Grey uniforms were everywhere, red flashes on their shoulders. Snow trampled and dirty under their boots. A circle of rifles, glinting in the sun, was aimed at the three figures in the centre of it: Vasily, Svetlana and Grigori. Grigori was splayed awkwardly on the snow in a sleep that Anna knew wasn’t sleep and in a pool of red juice that she knew wasn’t juice. She choked and gasped for air. Svetlana was kneeling beside her husband, a terrible low bone-scraping moan escaping from her lips, her head bowed to touch Grigori’s chest. There was more of the cranberry juice on the front of her beautiful grey dress and on her sleeve. On the fur and on her chin.
Vasily looked strange. He was standing stiff, his limbs rigid as he spoke to the soldier with the peaked cap, the one with a revolver still pointed at Grigori’s motionless body. The words that rushed out of Vasily were hot and angry.
‘You’ll get the same, whelp, if you don’t stop yapping.’ The soldier’s eyes were hard and full of hate. ‘You and your family are filthy class enemies of the people. Your father, Grigori Dyuzheyev, was a parasite, he exploited the workers of our Fatherland, he had no right to any of this and—’
‘No.’ Vasily was struggling for control. ‘My father . . . treated his servants and tenants well, ask any of them what kind of—’
The soldier spat on the snow, a jet of yellow hate. ‘No one should own a house like this.’ His moustache twitched with anger. ‘You should all be exterminated like rats.’
Anna mewed.
The soldier swung his gun so that it was pointing directly at her. ‘You. Come here.’
Anna took one step forward but that was as far as she could go with Maria still holding her tight.
‘Leave her alone,’ Vasily said quickly. ‘She is only a servant’s brat.’
‘In that dress? What kind of fool do you think I am? No, she’s one of your kind. One of the rats.’
‘Leave her,’ Vasily said again. ‘She’s too young to make choices.’
‘Rats breed,’ the soldier snarled. Without shifting the aim of the gun he turned his head to address a boy of about sixteen standing to attention at his shoulder, his cap low over his forehead. He was wearing ragged boots and his chest was heaving. Anna noticed that despite the chill winter air his young skin was damp with sweat. His uniform was someone else’s cast-off, with sleeves and trousers flapping loose and a telltale hole just over his heart.
‘Son, fetch the rat.’
The
boy looked directly at Anna. His pupils were so huge she feared they would swallow her up, black and bottomless. She glared back at the boy as he started towards her.
‘No, comrade.’ It was Maria. Her voice was as cool and crisp as the snow. ‘The girl is mine. My daughter. I am a servant, a worker, and she’s a worker’s child, one of the Soviet proletariat.’
‘No worker wears a dress like that.’
‘They gave it to her.’ Maria gestured to the body of Grigori and to Svetlana bent over him. ‘They like to dress her up in fine clothes.’
The soldier rubbed an old scar on the side of his head and Anna saw he had no ear there. He turned to Svetlana. ‘Is it true? Did you give the brat the dress?’
Svetlana ignored the soldiers but smiled lovingly at Anna.
‘Yes,’ she said quietly, ‘I gave dear Annochka the dress. But you are the rats and the scum. My husband spent his life at the Foreign Office helping his country. What have you ever done for Russia? You are the rats that will gnaw the heart out of Mother Russia until there is nothing left but blood and tears.’
The shot, when it rang out in the stillness of the January day, made Anna jump. Her feet would have skidded off the step if Maria had not held her. She bit her tongue, tasted blood. She saw Svetlana hurled backwards off her knees, her head flying so fast that her neck was stretched out, revealing blue veins and translucent white skin above the grey collar. A red hole flowered in the exact centre of her forehead and leaked dark tendrils.
Vasily roared and ran to her.
Anna stared at the soldier boy in the too-big uniform and cap, rifle steady in his hand, and realised he was the one who had fired the bullet. The older soldier placed a proud hand on his shoulder and said, ‘Well done, my son.’
The other soldiers murmured an echoing contented sound, passed from one to the other, so that rifles relaxed and attention lapsed.
Vasily came fast. It took no more than a second for the knife in his hand to sink into the soft throat of the older soldier in command, the one without the ear, and for Vasily to leap up the steps and vanish into the house. Anna smelled the sweet familiar scent of him as he raced past her, his ugly road digger’s jacket flapping against her cheek, making it sting. The soldiers fired after him and a bullet grazed Maria’s temple, but they were too slow. Their shouts and stomping feet echoed in the marble hall and up the stairs as they searched. There was the sound of glass shattering inside.
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