I placed my feet on the pedals and my hands on the control stick like someone about to ride a horse for the first time. I concentrated on everything I’d learned in my classes, from Svetlana and from observation. I didn’t want my first attempt to end with the glider nose down in the grass.
The other students dragged me forward. ‘She’s so light,’ cried one boy. ‘It’s like there isn’t a pilot in there at all!’
When the glider launched into the air, I gave a cry of delight. I was flying! For a moment, the whole world seemed quiet and still apart from the whirl of the wind. The air smelled pure and clean. I landed into the wind like a bird. While my landing wasn’t smooth, I did manage to keep both wingtips off the ground. I looked up and saw the other students waving at me from the top of the river bank. They were cheering. Even Sergei was smiling. I knew then that to become a pilot was my destiny.
While I was enjoying learning to glide, the atmosphere in Moscow was growing darker and more apprehensive. Black vans appeared outside buildings at all times of the night. There were rumours of a mass grave of executed enemies of the people in Yuzhnoye Butovo, near the gliding school. But it was impossible to know what was the truth and what was the creation of overactive minds.
One day, our mathematics teacher, Olga Andreyevna, came to school sobbing. I heard her whisper to the music teacher, Bronislava Ivanovna, that her husband had been arrested the previous evening. The next week, Olga Andreyevna was gone too.
‘Who would have thought mild Olga Andreyevna was an enemy of the people?’ I said to Svetlana one afternoon while we did our homework together. ‘The question that puzzles me is why these criminals don’t try to run away and hide? Surely they know they’re going to be arrested?’
Svetlana looked up from her textbook. ‘Maybe they believe they are innocent. Or maybe someone denounced Olga Andreyevna and her husband out of spite. Mama says we must be careful what we talk about on the tram and while standing in line at the store in case something we say is misinterpreted and we’re mistaken for criminals.’
I stood and poured us both some tea from the samovar before returning to the table. ‘Mama says the same thing. And when he was last here on leave, I heard Sasha telling her to be careful not to complain about anyone or get into arguments with students who don’t pay on time, because all sorts of lies are being told to the authorities by disgruntled people. But I think it’s foolish for him to be worried.’
Svetlana picked up Ponchik and nestled her chin against his head. ‘Why?’
‘Because Comrade Stalin will know who is innocent and who is guilty. If anyone is arrested for something they didn’t do, they’ll soon be released.’
Mama and Lydia came into the kitchen. Mama poured some tea for Lydia, who sat down next to me and took off her shoes. I realised that she was wearing the dance slippers that had been given to me by Stalin.
‘I hope you don’t mind that we borrowed them,’ said Mama, kissing me on the forehead. ‘Lydia’s own dancing shoes have fallen apart and she’s having trouble finding another pair.’
‘No, I don’t mind,’ I said. ‘I’m happy to share my present from Comrade Stalin.’
Lydia raised her eyebrows. ‘Comrade Stalin? You mean, thanks to Comrade Stalin we can all enjoy such bounty?’
‘No,’ I said, smiling. ‘They were a gift from Comrade Stalin himself. After Papa and I attended the reception at the Kremlin for Valery Chkalov, he sent them to me.’
Lydia looked askance at her daughter. ‘You didn’t say anything to me about that.’
Svetlana looked away and I wondered why she didn’t tell her mother about good things that happened to me. I boasted to Mama constantly about Svetlana’s achievements. Lydia examined the shoes before handing them back to me. ‘Svetochka, you have a science examination tomorrow and I expect you to come top of the class as usual,’ she told her daughter.
Poor Svetlana. I suddenly understood why she didn’t tell her mother about what I did. If I achieved something, she would be pushed harder to achieve something more impressive. But Lydia needn’t have been so competitive. We all expected the best from Svetlana: she was destined to study at the Moscow Aviation Institute and make a name for herself. She was the brightest girl in our school. I wasn’t doing as well as I used to in our subject tests but I didn’t care. I was losing interest in school work anyway. All I wanted to do now was to fly.
The telephone rang. Zoya came into the kitchen to say that it was Pyotr Borisovich on the line, Svetlana’s father. I’d met him a few times. He was a quiet and serious man; I’d never seen him smile. Svetlana said it was because he had an important job at the construction factory and worried a lot, but also because her mother was bossy and he’d got used to listening.
My mother picked up the receiver in the hallway before Lydia could reach it. ‘Pyotr Borisovich,’ she said in a flirtatious voice. ‘Why don’t you ever come to have dance lessons with your wife?’
I had put the same question to Svetlana once.
‘Papa doesn’t mind that Mama dances with the other Party officials when they go to functions,’ she told me. ‘He’s content to be an ordinary factory manager and Party official. It’s my mother who is ambitious for us to rise in life.’
As the arrests continued, even my light-hearted father grew anxious. I would hear him pace the floor for an hour before going to bed, and I blamed my mother for his agitation. Papa possessed a cheerful personality, while she was a worrier. Every time a car stopped outside our building at night, she would stiffen, expecting the worst. It was her jitteriness that was getting to Papa — and to me.
One evening I found her packing a bag with warm clothes, underwear, money, toothbrush and some toothpaste. I realised instantly what she was doing. She was preparing necessities for Papa in case he was arrested.
‘You’re inviting bad luck by doing that!’ I scolded her. ‘Comrade Stalin has only praise for Papa. He even gave him a toast at the reception for Valery Chkalov.’ I took the bag from her and put the clothes back in the wardrobe. ‘And Papa is no enemy of the people! His life’s work is to give the Soviet people pleasure, which is exactly what Comrade Stalin wants him to do.’
Mama pursed her lips then said, ‘It seems to me that it doesn’t matter what you contribute to the Soviet Union if your family once served the aristocratic classes.’
One day I met my father alone in the living room. ‘Papa, are you going to be arrested?’ I asked him.
He placed the sugared fruits he had been examining on the side table. ‘Natashka, darling!’ he said. ‘Have you been worrying about that? I had no idea! I thought you were having fun with your gliding lessons.’ He took my hand and pulled me down onto the sofa next to him. ‘Please don’t be concerned for me,’ he said, wrapping his arm around my shoulders, ‘I may have seemed tense lately because of Pavel Maximovich.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’
Papa offered me a sugared fruit. I declined, but he took one and rolled it around his mouth. The scents of strawberry and melon reminded me of carefree summer days, and were at odds with the apprehension I was feeling.
‘Despite the factory’s high status, Pavel Maximovich can’t get the supplies of cocoa beans and palm oil needed to keep up production,’ he said. ‘The factory didn’t meet its targets for New Year’s Eve. For the first time there were shortages of Red October chocolate.’
‘But that’s not his fault,’ I said.
‘Of course it isn’t,’ Papa agreed. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his fingers. ‘But some of the workers see it differently. If Pavel Maximovich orders them to do anything these days they become difficult. The cooperative atmosphere at the factory is gone.’
Reassured by my father’s explanation that he was concerned for the factory’s chief manager and not for himself, I concentrated on my school work and glider lessons again.
Then one morning when I was having breakfast with my mother in the kitchen, Papa came home from the factory early. I gave a
cry when I saw him. His clothes were dishevelled and there was blood on his sleeve. Mama stood up, her face twisted in horror. ‘Stepan!’
Without looking at me, my father gestured for Mama to follow him to the living room. He shut the door behind them. I sat in the kitchen with Ponchik, too shocked to know what to do.
‘It can’t be true!’ I heard Mama say in response to something Papa had mumbled. ‘Pavel Maximovich cut his own throat? Was he so sure that he’d be accused of being a wrecker?’
‘There are troublemakers at the factory who threatened to point the finger at him if they didn’t get what they wanted,’ Papa replied.
My parents were so agitated they had forgetten to speak quietly. I could hear every word they said.
‘And you found him?’ asked my mother. ‘Just you?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did you do?’
Papa paused before he replied. ‘I called the police and the NKVD came. They questioned me and told me that I wasn’t to tell anyone. Not even you, Sofia. You must never repeat what I have told you. Tomorrow Pavel Maximovich’s death will be reported in Pravda as a heart attack along with a warning for all Soviet citizens to make sure they keep up their exercise regimes.’
My mother gasped. ‘They’re covering it up! You must speak to Comrade Stalin! He is the only one who can protect you!’
After the death of Pavel Maximovich, my father went about as if he were in a trance. The strain became worse when a new manager was brought in to replace Pavel Maximovich.
‘Don’t come to the factory any more, Natasha,’ Papa told me. ‘The new manager watches me all the time. I find it impossible to work.’
I couldn’t believe that anything bad would happen to my father, but trying to reason with my mother to remain calm was impossible. I stayed longer at my glider lessons or went to the aerodrome to watch the planes to avoid the tense atmosphere at home. I was taking advanced classes in glider flying now but my real ambition was to soar in airplanes to the far corners of the Soviet Union and be one of Comrade Stalin’s eagles.
Then one afternoon Papa came home from the factory with a grin on his face. He looked himself again. Lydia was having elocution lessons with Mama, and I was doing my homework with Svetlana, when Papa walked into the apartment. He had two packages under his arm.
‘Come, everybody,’ he announced, nudging Mama into the kitchen and gesturing for Lydia to join us. ‘I have good news!’
‘What is it?’ I asked him.
‘Comrade Stalin telephoned me today. He said that he is personally ordering supplies for the factory so I can continue to work unhindered. He also insisted that we use the new State dacha on the river in Nikolina Gora this summer. You know the one — the villa with the pier and the long veranda.’ Papa turned to Lydia. ‘We would be honoured to have the Novikov family as our guests there,’ he said.
Lydia’s eyes flashed. She would have known that the dacha was used by high Party officials.
My father turned back to us. ‘Then Comrade Stalin sent one of his bodyguards around with these packages addressed to the Azarov family.’
He placed them on the table and unwrapped one. It contained caviar, smoked fish, cheese, some dried peaches and a bottle of champagne from Abrau-Dyurso, the best wine-making region in the Soviet Union.
‘Tonight we will have a party to celebrate.’ Papa squeezed Lydia’s arm. ‘You must call your husband and ask him to join us.’
Lydia seemed confused as she eyed the food spread out on the table. Perhaps she thought I had made up the story about my dance shoes being a present from Stalin. She would have to believe his generosity towards us now.
Zoya led Lydia to the telephone and dialled her husband’s number for her. We turned our attention to the other package.
‘This one,’ said Papa, ‘came with the instruction that it was to be opened by my wife and daughter.’
‘You open it,’ Mama said, pushing the package towards me.
I unwrapped the brown paper to discover something large and soft wrapped in tissue paper. Mama’s name was written on it. I handed it to her. She untied the string and pulled aside the tissue paper to reveal a fine wool shawl. She lifted it up and Svetlana and I gaped at its beauty: pink cabbage roses were printed on a sky blue background, and the fringe was gold. The shawl was elegant and would be perfect for summer evenings in Nikolina Gora.
The other item in the package was a black velvet box with a cardboard tag attached with my name on it.
‘Perhaps it’s a compass,’ said Svetlana. ‘Or something else to encourage you with your flying.’
‘Open it!’ urged Zoya.
The box smelled old and dusty. I lifted the lid. Resting on the cream silk lining was a sapphire brooch surrounded by tiny diamonds.
‘Oh my!’ Mama gasped. ‘Stepan, can we accept such a valuable gift?’
Papa looked surprised when he saw the brooch. It was certainly something unusual. ‘If it comes from Comrade Stalin, then we have to accept it … with gratitude,’ he said.
‘Comrade Stalin must be pleased with you, Stepan,’ Mama said. ‘He is being very generous with us.’
Her frown lines had disappeared and she looked as if ten years had fallen off her face.
I held the brooch in my hand and stared at it in wonder. The dance shoes had been the most beautiful thing I had owned — until now!
Lydia returned from the telephone, flustered. ‘Pyotr said that Svetlana and I must leave. His mother has a bad cough.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Papa, picking up the dried peaches and cheese and wrapping them in some of the tissue paper. ‘Please take these for her. I hope she feels better soon.’
Lydia looked at my father with an odd expression on her face and ushered Svetlana towards the door. Before leaving, she turned and stared at us again as if about to make an announcement, but her lips trembled and she faltered. ‘I know that dacha in Nikolina Gora,’ she said finally. ‘I’ve seen it in a photograph. It’s very beautiful.’
‘And we will all enjoy it together,’ said Papa cheerfully. ‘I hope your husband will be able to come and relax and leave his work worries behind for a while.’
Lydia nodded and put her arm around Svetlana, guiding her out the door.
Mama opened the bottle of champagne that Stalin had sent us and poured some for my father and herself. Even I was allowed half a glass. Then Mama put a record on the gramophone and she and Papa danced the tango to ‘Wine of Love’. I placed the brooch on my desk in my room so I could admire it later.
Zoya called us for dinner and we sat down to eat.
‘Lydia was not herself this evening,’ observed my father.
‘She was moved by your generosity,’ Mama responded. ‘She grew up in poverty. Her father and mother died when she was young and she had to fend for herself and her siblings. Considering where she’s come from, Lydia’s done well. Svetlana is a charming young lady.’
‘I couldn’t agree more!’ I said, scooping some beetroot onto my plate.
‘Alas,’ said Papa, glancing at the clock, ‘time for me to return to work. If Comrade Stalin is sending me supplies, I’d better start on new chocolate ideas for May Day.’
Papa was putting on his jacket when a knock sounded at the door.
‘NKVD! Open up!’
We all looked at each other.
‘Who are you after?’ Mama called, moving towards the door. ‘This is the Azarov apartment. You must have the wrong place.’
Before my mother could open the door there was a bang and the sound of splintering wood. The door fell inwards and three NKVD agents rushed into the apartment. The tallest of them, a man with red hair and a moustache, grabbed my father and flung him against the wall. Mama and I screamed. Zoya ran out of the kitchen with a saucepan to defend Papa but one of the NKVD men pushed her away.
‘There must be a mistake,’ said my father, wincing with pain. ‘I am Stepan Vladimirovich Azarov, chief chocolatier at the Red October
factory. I’m on my way there now to receive supplies ordered by Comrade Stalin.’
The red-haired man reached into his pocket and ripped out a document. He shoved it into my father’s face. ‘There is no mistake. This is your arrest warrant. You are accused of being an enemy of the people. But first we will search the apartment.’
He dragged Papa to the living room and threw him on the sofa. The other agents pushed Mama, me and Zoya into the room after him. Mama clung to Papa and cried. It was then I noticed our neighbour, Aleksey Nikolayevich, shifting from foot to foot in the doorway. The NKVD must have forced him to act as a witness to the search and arrest.
For six hours we huddled together while the NKVD agents tore through our apartment like a hurricane, flinging books off the shelves and upending drawers. They seized the strangest of things as evidence: Mama’s sheet music; recipe books; a camera; even the record Mama had put on the gramophone. I watched the red-haired agent write the items down in a notebook. He had long, elegant hands but they were calloused. I might never learn his name but I knew that I would never forget his hard, angular face and those cold eyes.
I heard the agents searching the room I shared with Alexander. Would they take the sapphire brooch and my dance shoes as well? Ponchik must have been hiding under my bed. He yelped when one of the men kicked him. I stood up but Mama tugged me back down. To my relief Ponchik came running to us and nestled by my side. What was to become of us? A moment ago we had been enjoying luxurious gifts sent to us by Comrade Stalin … and now this? There must be a mistake. It gave me smug satisfaction to think that when Comrade Stalin learned about it, these men would pay dearly for treating us like criminals.
The red-haired agent returned to the living room and began searching it. He ordered us to stand up and then ripped through the sofa’s cushions. Mama stifled a cry when he lifted the lid of her piano and slammed it down again. He opened the cabinet and saw the icon of St Sofia. My blood froze. Papa hadn’t committed a crime, but worshipping icons was against the law. Forgive us, Comrade Stalin, I silently prayed. Despite everything I was taught at the Young Pioneers, the paradox of my faith had never registered itself so clearly until then. The agent stared at the icon before seizing it in both hands. I thought he intended to smash it on the floor but instead he winced as if he had been struck in the heart. The sound of the other agents returning to the room alarmed him. He flung the icon under the cupboard and said nothing about it. He didn’t record it in his notebook.
Sapphire Skies Page 10
