He pulled on his shorts roughly. Life was too confusing. He shook his head and, in a flash, his thoughts shifted to the arrival of the Krokodil aeroplane today. Instantly his mood changed and excitement surged through him, whooshing up from his toes and setting his scalp tingling. Quickly he yanked on his shirt. He’d worry about the jewels tomorrow.
The wide green meadow stretched out, lazy in the sunshine on the far side of Dagorsk. From every direction carts and wagons and rattling bicycles were descending on it, tents springing up all over its surface like mushrooms. Men in red armbands were running around blowing whistles, shouting orders and waving batons, but nothing could subdue the spirit and energy of the crowd that surged into the field.
Pyotr loved every single second of it. Even the journey in the ramshackle old wagon had been fun. It was packed with villagers from Tivil and he’d sat squashed close to Yuri at the back, legs dangling over the tailboard. Dust swirled up from the track into their mouths, coating their tongues, but everyone sang to the playing of an accordion, loud and boisterous. It was like going to a party. Somewhere up ahead in the first wagon were Papa and Sofia and Zenia, but the children of the village were bundled into the second one with their teacher. Even Comrade Lishnikova was laughing and wearing a bright red flowered shawl instead of her usual grey one. Today was going to be special. At the meadow they tumbled from the wagon in a flurry of pushing and shoving and high-pitched squeals.
‘The aircraft isn’t due for another half hour,’ Elizaveta Lishnikova announced.
‘Can we look inside the film tent?’ Pyotr asked.
‘Yes, you may go and explore first, but when I blow my whistle I expect you all to line up just the way we practised.’
‘A guard of honour,’ Yuri whooped.
She smiled and her long face creased in amusement. ‘That’s right.’ She seized the hand of a tiny child who was about to wander off. ‘And I’m relying on you Young Pioneers to do it right and show the little ones the way. In front of all the other brigades from the raion, I want you to make me proud of you.’
‘We will! For our Great Leader!’ Pyotr shouted, and everyone gave the Pioneer salute, eyes shining. ‘Bud gotov, vsegda gotov!’ Be ready, always ready!
The schoolteacher looked fondly down at her thin-faced flock but didn’t join in the salute. ‘Here,’ she said, and from her bag drew a leather purse. ‘Line up.’
The twenty-two children shuffled quickly into an obedient single file and into each eager hand she placed a rouble. Never before had she done such a thing.
‘Spasibo.’
‘Go and buy yourselves some biscuits.’
They were off and running like mice in a cornfield, skipping and skittering between the groups of women in flower-printed dresses and the kolkhoznik men from other villages in their flat caps, as well as the older, more disdainful youths from Dagorsk’s factories.
‘This way!’ Pyotr yelled.
He dragged Yuri over to a stall that sold konfetki and they spent a delicious ten minutes deciding which sweets to buy. Yuri chose a sugar chicken on a stick but Pyotr bought one of the petushki, a boiled pine cone, and started to pop the seeds in his mouth. Scattered among the crowds were other Young Pioneers from other brigades, also in white shirts and scarlet triangular scarves, and they eyed each other with interested rivalry. Later there would be races.
‘You’ll beat them,’ Yuri said confidently. ‘Easy.’
‘Da, of course I will, ’ Pyotr agreed and put a swagger in his step, though in his heart he was far from certain.
Together they headed for the largest of the tents. ‘Come on!’ Yuri yelled and broke into a run.
‘I’m going to be a fighter pilot,’ Pyotr announced as he and Yuri emerged from the film show. They had just sat wide-eyed through the footage of the May Day Parade in Red Square for the third time and their pulses were still beating to the powerful rhythm of the martial music. Pyotr began to swing his arms in imitation of the soldiers on screen, his legs striding out in a stiffkneed goose step.
Yuri giggled and copied his military bearing, puffing out his chest and grinning. ‘I want to become a tank driver when I leave school. Did you see those machines? Aren’t they massive? They’ll stomp all over Germany in no time if they give us any more trouble.’
The boys marched round the field in unison, swerving to avoid a bald man with a tattoo on his arm rolling a wooden cask over to one of the tents. Yuri was clutching a pamphlet in his hand and on the front of it was printed in big red letters: Beware of Enemies of the People Among You.
‘I wonder,’ Yuri said, flapping the pamphlet as he marched, ‘who are the enemies in Tivil.’
Pyotr missed his step. His cheeks flushed. ‘Maybe there aren’t any,’ he said quickly.
‘Of course there are. Have you forgotten that our Great Comrade Stalin tells us they are everywhere, hiding among us. Most of them employed by Foreign Powers to—’
‘Why on earth would a Foreign Power be interested in what goes on in our village?’
‘Because we provide the food to feed the factory workers, stupid,’ Yuri scoffed.
Pyotr was stung. ‘I bet I know more about enemies in Tivil than you do.’
‘You don’t.’
‘Yes, I do.’
They stopped in the middle of the field and glared at each other. Not far away the band struck up a marching tune but neither boy wished to set off again.
‘Name one,’ Yuri challenged.
‘I could if I wanted.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Tell me.’
Pyotr shook his head firmly. ‘No.’
‘I knew it. You don’t know.’ He gave Pyotr’s shoulder a scornful shove.
It was the shove that did it, as if Pyotr were a stupid child to be pushed around. His cheeks darkened and he gave Yuri’s chest a thump with his fist. Not hard, but hard enough to show he was serious.
‘I’ll tell you only if you promise to keep it secret.’
Yuri’s eyes gleamed. ‘Go on, tell me,’ he urged. But he didn’t promise.
Pyotr was desperate to find Sofia. He had to talk to her, to warn her. His heart was squeezed tight inside his chest as he scoured the field, trying to catch a glimpse of white-blonde hair and a cornflower dress. He zigzagged behind the tents and with every step he swallowed hard, attempting to swallow the shame.
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 on to 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 recognise in that dress because it was the prettiest on the field. She’d know what was best to do. He started to run towards her but skidded to a halt when he saw she was talking to someone. With a funny twist in his stomach he recognised 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. 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 it would definitely be a piece of jewellery. 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 trail of noise like a distant buzz-saw started to drill into his mind. He recognised 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. That realisation sent
a dart of sorrow into his heart because he loved her now and, more importantly, Papa loved her.
Papa, he must find Papa and speak with him. He started to run.
54
Dagorsk July 1933
‘She’s beautiful.’
Mikhail’s eyes shone with pleasure as he squinted up at the aeroplane’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 aeroplane swooped down from the sky like a giant bird of prey. 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 Rhône 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? How 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 towards him. 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 on to 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 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 aeroplane 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, 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. 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 at 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 modernisation 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. ‘We must swap clothes.’
She was already untying the red scarf from her neck and yanking off her skirt to reveal thin, childish legs. 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. It had felt flowers in bright colours round the hem. She 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 blonde 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. She eventually lifted up the amulet of the wolf ’s canine tooth, which she tied round 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 round 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. She clung to him, imprinting the feel of him into her muscles, 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.’
Under a Blood Red Sky Page 41
