Anna barely moved her lips but she turned her eyes to Maria and whispered, ‘Do you think he’s safe now? Vasily has escaped, hasn’t he?’

Her governess’s face was grey as stone except for the small trickle of blood at her hairline. She was staring at the body of Svetlana. It was only then that Anna realised tears were pouring down her own cheeks. She dashed them away, scraping her cold fingers over her face, and that was when she saw Papa. He was running, except to Anna it looked like flying. His long dark cloak was billowing out around him like great black wings, as he ran up the slope of the snow-covered lawn to the drive, his face twisted in anguish at the sight of his two dearest friends sprawled on the trampled snow.

‘Stop there!’ one of the soldiers shouted.

He was older than the rest, with heavy-set shoulders and troubled brown eyes that kept darting back to the body of his superior lying on his back in the snow.

‘What happened?’ Papa demanded. ‘Why have you shot these people?’ Anna could see the tick in his cheek muscle. ‘I shall report you.’

‘Who are you?’ the older soldier raised his voice.

‘I am Doktor Fedorin. I was tending to someone wounded by your men here.’

He stepped back and dropped on one knee next to Grigori. His eyes glanced over at Anna. Almost imperceptibly he shook his head. He touched first Grigori’s wrist, then Svetlana’s, his head bowed. Anna saw his lips move soundlessly and a deep shudder gripped him. She felt it ripple in an echo through herself.

‘The boy killed my comrade here,’ the soldier growled.

Papa looked up. Slowly rose to his feet. ‘What boy?’

‘The Dyuzheyev son.’

Papa stood very still. ‘Where is he?’

‘My men are searching for him now.’

Papa looked at Anna but said nothing.

‘I am taking over this house,’ the soldier suddenly declared. ‘I requisition it in the name of the Soviet people and-’ He stopped abruptly and pointed at the black Oakland parked further along the drive, its headlamps sparkling in the sunshine. ‘Whose is that vehicle?’

‘It’s mine,’ Papa said. ‘I’m a doctor. I need a car to visit the sick.’

‘The rich sick,’ the boy soldier spat. ‘The sick that possess big houses and big bank balances.’ He pointed his rifle at the Oakland and fired. The windscreen exploded and glass flew like ice.

The older soldier scowled. ‘Why ruin a perfectly good car? We could use it for-’

‘It is American. It stinks of injustice just like this doctor does.’

‘Tell me, Doktor,’ the older man in command demanded sharply, ‘do you also live in a big house? Do you also keep servants? Do you own horses and carriages and more silver samovars and fur coats than you can ever use?’ The man took a step closer. ‘Do you?’

Anna saw Papa’s eyes go to the silent bodies of Svetlana and Grigori. Suddenly he yanked the handsome silver watch from his waistcoat pocket. ‘Here,’ he shouted, ‘take this. And these.’ He hurled his cigar case and his beaver hat on to the trampled snow at their feet. ‘And take my house too, why don’t you?’ His heavy bunch of keys hit the boy’s toecap. Papa’s rage frightened Anna. ‘Take everything. Leave me nothing, not even my friends. Will I then be fit to doctor your glorious proletariat? And are you fit to decide who is fit to be cared for and who isn’t?’

The boy’s eyes filled with loathing.

Anna watched Papa take four long strides towards her. Odeen. Dva. Tri. Chetiri. One. Two. Three. Four. Her heart leapt at the sight of his familiar reassuring smile, at his eager blue eyes, his hair ruffled by the wind. The cloak that so many times had wrapped her close against his warm cigar-smelling body swirled in welcome, as though seeking her out. His hand reached for her and she felt Maria’s fingers uncurl.

There was a loud crack. Anna knew now that it was the sound a rifle makes when it’s fired. The boy, she thought, shooting at the car again. She expected Papa to be angry with him, but instead his mouth jerked open into a silent ‘oh’ and his eyes rolled up in his head, so that only their whites showed. His knees went soft. And then he was falling, face first like he used to do in the enticing waters of the Black Sea to amuse her when they spent the summer at their dacha. Face first into the snow. The back of his head was blown open. The boy soldier was gripping his rifle proudly.

Anna ripped herself free of her governess and started to scream.

31

Tivil July 1933


Zenia dealt the tarot cards, the gadalniye karti. Her hands were quick and skilful. Each card laid neatly on the table, flicking a second and a third to overlap it. The images of noose and naked bodies and long curved sickle tumbled on top of each other. The room was gloomy, shutters closed, the air scented with a cloying ball of goose fat that hissed and spat in a dish of beaten copper. In the centre of the table sat a basket of woven birch bark, a lid of coarse netting stretched over it, a knife positioned in a vertical line across its surface. The blade pointed due east. Inside the basket something moved.

The shadows shifted and Rafik’s voice was deep with tension as he placed a hand on the knife and said, ‘Again, Zenia.’

The gypsy girl gathered the cards. Shuffled and dealt again. The same. Noose and sickle and pink-skinned naked bodies entwined in long curling loops of silvery hair.

‘The lovers,’ Zenia announced. ‘They bring death to Tivil.’

An intake of breath as a shutter vibrated, though there was no wind. Rafik picked up a teacup that stood on the table, the one Sofia had drunk from earlier in the day with Pokrovsky. At the bottom of it tea leaves were bunched and spread into intricate shapes that Zenia had studied.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked, though in his heart he didn’t doubt his daughter’s reading.

‘Yes, I’m sure.’

‘A journey for her. One that brings sorrow to Tivil.’

‘Yes.’

They both gazed at the brown envelope that lay next to the basket. On it was written one word: Sofia. Rafik felt the weight of each of the bold black letters.

‘Tonight,’ he said. ‘I will walk the circle.’


The field was emptying. Sofia stood, straightening her cramped muscles, and watched the women head back towards the village in twos and threes, their chatter adding to the tinkling bell of the cows as they ambled in for the night.

‘That’s it for today,’ the woman tending the next potato row called across to her. ‘Come on, you can finish now. Enough for today.’

Sofia shouldered her hoe. ‘So Chairman Fomenko does allow us to stop work eventually, then?’

The woman chuckled and together they trudged up the valley, talking quietly about the condition of the crop this year, while the evening sun sent their long shadows skimming ahead of them. It was as they approached the cedar tree that Sofia spotted the huddle of three children crouched in the dust at the base of its wide trunk, playing a game of some kind with small stones and a rubber ball. A pair of bright brown eyes met hers and looked away quickly. It was Pyotr. Sofia felt an unexpected tug at her heart at the realisation that he was nervous of her.

She waved to him and smiled to coax him into friendship, but part of her felt like going over there and giving the boy a good shake. She didn’t, of course. She was just as nervous of him, that’s what was so stupid. They were uncomfortable together, too well aware of each other’s weakness. He knew she was a fugitive, and she knew he hadn’t reported her. Not yet, anyway.

‘Hello.’

Sofia blinked. A skinny little form had detached itself from the group and skipped over to her. Sofia halted, and her companion from the field nodded pleasantly and walked on. She had her husband’s meal to cook. It took Sofia a moment to recognise the narrow face and uncombed hair at her side. It belonged to one of the girls from inside the schoolroom last night, one of the silent little mice.

‘It’s me, Anastasia.’

‘Hello, Anastasia.’

‘My mother said to thank you.’

‘For what?’

Anastasia glanced furtively around with exaggerated care, though no one except the two boys was within earshot. ‘For the story.’

‘It was my pleasure.’

The girl grinned up at her, little mouse teeth showing. ‘We asked our teacher if you can come in again. Will you?’

Well, that explained the Pokrovsky visit. And why a number of the women in the potato field this afternoon had gone out of their way to include her in their banter.

‘Da,’ Sofia smiled. ‘Yes, I’ll come in again. If I’m officially invited.’

‘Did you hear that, Pyotr? Comrade Morozova might be coming into our school!’

Pyotr looked up from his position in the dirt. His gaze darted to Sofia’s face.

‘But you’re a tractor driver.’

‘Yes.’ She could see the uncertainty disturbing his young eyes and knew he was trying to deal with questions he couldn’t answer. Would it be so bad to have a fugitive in his school? Should he report it? What would happen if he did? Or if he didn’t?

‘Pyotr, I am many things.’ She laughed, to show him she understood. ‘Don’t-’

The other boy jumped to his feet, his knees dusty, his eyes sharp. With a sinking heart she remembered him from the meeting, the youth who looked as if he’d stepped out of a propaganda poster.

‘Has Chairman Fomenko been informed of this?’ he asked.

‘Don’t be silly, Yuri.’ Anastasia waved a dismissive little hand at him. The gesture made Sofia smile, it was so obviously copied from her teacher. ‘The school is run by Comrade Lishnikova, not Chairman Fomenko.’ She turned to Pyotr with a bright expression. ‘Isn’t it, Pyotr?’

The boy shrugged and tossed a stone high into the cedar branches.

‘Don’t take any notice of Pyotr,’ Anastasia sighed apologetically. ‘He’s sulking because his father is leaving Tivil.’

Leaving. Sofia’s heart knocked against her ribs.

‘Leaving?’

Pyotr traced the outline of an aeroplane in the dust. His shaggy hair was falling over his face, hiding any expression from her.

‘Pyotr, is your father leaving Tivil?’ she asked softly.

Reluctantly he nodded. ‘He’s going to Leningrad.’

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow.’

One word. That’s all it took, and the evening sky grew dark.


‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘This morning, Sofia, with you eating my biscuits, I had no interest in tomorrow. I was enjoying today too much to think about leaving.’

‘You could have told me.’

‘Would it have changed anything?’

‘No. Except…’

‘Except what?’

‘Except make me… more aware of what I had and… of what I was losing.’

The look Mikhail gave her in response made her pulse quicken. It made the long wait alone in the dark worth every minute. The sun had set several hours ago but she had sat patiently on the edge of the stone water trough in the stableyard, listening to the contented sighs and snores of the horses while a bat flitted erratically above her head, snatching mosquitoes out of the air. She was growing used to waiting for him.

By the time she caught the steady tread of a horse’s hooves on the approaching slope, the moon had risen and the stars glimmered like diamond splinters in the great arc of black night that hung over the mountains of Tivil. The air was moist. Her skin was chilled in the breeze, her breathing fast and shallow. When Mikhail walked into the yard leading the big horse Zvezda on a loose rein, both man and animal moved with a tired step, limbs heavy and heads low. It had been a long day. He carried his jacket slung over his shoulder and a leather saddlebag hooked on to the pommel. In the colourless shaft of moonlight they seemed to drift like ghosts, silver and luminous. For one moment Sofia believed they were figments torn from her dreams. Only the metallic ring of the hooves convinced her otherwise.

‘Mikhail.’

His head lifted, eyes astonished. And the smile he gave her roused such a need to touch him that she forced herself to remain seated. If she stood, she might steal the rein from his grasp and slip her own hand in its place.

‘Sofia,’ he said, ‘is something wrong?’ His easy smile slipped into a frown of concern.

‘Yes.’

Instantly he strode forward. His face was divided by shadows, so that she was uncertain of his thoughts. The way he leaned over her made her sway towards him, the tip of her hair brushing his sleeve.

‘What is it?’ he asked urgently.

‘You’re leaving Tivil.’

He drew himself upright again with a light laugh. ‘Oh, is that all? I thought it was something serious.’

She swayed away from him, silenced by his indifference. He stepped aside and started to unbuckle the horse’s girth. The animal blew out its stomach with a snort of pleasure. Mikhail ran a hand over Zvezda’s thick neck, so that it gleamed in the sheen of moonlight.