‘Anna always made me laugh,’ he said in a low voice. ‘She was always funny, always infuriating.’ The smile spread, wide and affectionate. ‘She drove me mad and I adored her.’

‘So help me to rescue her.’

The smile died. ‘No.’

‘Why not?’

He stood up, towering over her where she still crouched on the floor and he spoke quietly, the turmoil hidden away, concealed deep inside. His wolfhound leaned against his thigh and he rested a hand unconsciously on its wiry head.

‘You have to understand, comrade,’ he said. ‘Sixteen years ago, to satisfy my own anger and lust for vengeance, I slit a man’s throat. As a result Anna’s father was shot and her life destroyed. That taught me a lesson I will carry to my grave.’

His grey eyes were intent on Sofia’s face. She could feel the force of his need to make her understand.

‘I learned,’ he continued, ‘that the individual need doesn’t matter. The individual is selfish and unpredictable, driven by uncontrolled emotions that bring nothing but destruction. It is only the need of the Whole that counts, the need of the State. So however much I want to rescue Anna from her… misery,’ he closed his eyes for a second as he said the word, ‘I know that if I do so-’

He broke off. She could see the struggle inside him for a moment as it rose to the surface, and his voice rose with it.

‘You must see, comrade, that I would lose my position as Chairman of the kolkhoz. Everything that I have achieved here – or will achieve in the future – would be destroyed because they would revert back to old ways. I know these people. Tell me which counts for more? Tivil’s continued contribution to the progress of Russia and the feeding of many mouths or my and Anna’s…?’ he paused.

‘Happiness?’

He nodded and looked away.

‘Need you even ask? You’re blind,’ Sofia said bitterly. ‘You help no one, nor do you think for yourself any more.’

Something seemed to snap inside him. Without warning he bent down and yanked her to her feet, his fingers hard on her arms.

‘Thought,’ he said, his face close to hers, ‘is the one thing that will carry this country forward. At the moment Stalin is pushing us to great achievements in industry and farming but he is at the same time destroying one of our greatest assets – our intellectuals, our men and women of ideas and vision. Those are the ones I help to…’ He stopped and she saw him fighting for control.

His hands released her.

‘The radio in the forest,’ she said in a whisper. ‘It’s not to report to your OGPU masters. It’s to help-’

‘It’s part of a network,’ he said curtly, angry with her and angry with himself.

‘The previous teacher here who spoke out of turn?’

He nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘And others? You help them escape.’

‘Yes.’

‘Does anybody else in Tivil know?’

He drew in a harsh breath. ‘Only Pokrovsky, and he is sworn to secrecy. No one in the network knows of more than one other person within it. That way no one can betray more than one name. Pokrovsky provides… packages… and forged papers for them. Where he gets them, I don’t ask.’

Sofia recalled the ink stamp and magnifying glass on Elizaveta Lishnikova’s desk. She could guess. She also recalled Pokrovsky’s hard face when she accused him of working for both sides. She was angered at her own blindness and walked over to the open door, where she stood looking out at the village.

‘Chairman Fomenko,’ she said softly, ‘I feel sorry for you. You have hidden from yourself and from your pain so deeply, you cannot-’

‘I do not need or want your sorrow.’

But he came up behind her and she could feel him struggling with something, a faint hissing sound seemed to emanate from him. She could hear it clearly, though the room was silent.

‘What is it?’

She turned and looked into his grey eyes, and for a moment caught him unawares. The need in them was naked.

‘What is it?’ she asked again, more gently.

‘Tell her I love her. Take my mother’s jewels, all of them, and use them for her.’

She slid the damaged necklace from her pocket and slipped a single perfect pearl off its strand, took his strong hand in hers and placed inside it the pale sphere that had lain next to his mother’s skin. He closed his fingers over it. His mouth softened and she felt the tremor that passed through him. In the same moment she replaced the necklace in her pocket and removed the white pebble. With her other hand she rested her fingers on Fomenko’s wrist and pressed deep into his flesh as she’d seen Rafik do, touching the hard edges of his bones, his tendons, his powerful pulse, seeking him out.

‘Vasily,’ she said firmly, fixing her gaze on his, ‘help me to help Anna. I can’t do it alone.’

Something seemed to shift under her fingers. She felt it, as though his blood thickened or his bones realigned. A tiny click sounded in her head and a thin point of pain kicked into life behind her right eye.

‘Vasily,’ she said again, ‘help Anna.’

His eyes grew dark but his lips started to curl into a soft acquiescent smile. Her heart beat faster.

‘Chairman Fomenko!’ A boy’s voice shouted out from the street and a scurry of footsteps came hurtling up to the doorway. It was a clutch of seal-haired youths still wet from the pond. ‘Is it all arranged for tomorrow?’

Fomenko jerked himself back to the present by force of will and wrenched his wrist from her hold. His eyes blinked again to refocus on the world outside his head.

Sofia stepped out into the street. She’d lost him.

‘Is what arranged for tomorrow?’ he demanded.

‘The wagons to take everyone to Dagorsk. Like you promised last week.’ The boy’s face was grinning eagerly.

‘A holiday,’ chirped a blonde snippet of a child. ‘To see the Krokodil aeroplane and hear our Great Leader’s speech.’

Fomenko straightened his shoulders and gave a harsh cough, as though trying to spit something out. ‘Yes, of course, it’s all arranged.’ With a brisk nod of his head he moved back into the house and shut the door.

Sofia stood there while the boys raced away down the road, skipping over the ruts and yelling their excitement. The sky had darkened and a solitary bat swooped low overhead. She watched a yellow glow spring to life in Fomenko’s izba as he lit the oil lamp inside, but outside, Sofia felt no glow. Just the pain behind her right eye.

53

The night was unbearable without her. Mikhail spent the dark hours with his own demons and wrestled with the knowledge Sofia had given him.

Aleksei Fomenko. The name was branded into his brain. Fomenko was Vasily Dyuzheyev, the killer of his father. Yet at the same time Fomenko was the son of Svetlana Dyuzheyeva, the woman Mikhail himself had killed in cold blood.

They were bound together, Fomenko and himself, bound in some macabre dance of death. Both servants of the State and both sent to the same peasant raion to drag it into the twentieth century. So similar, yet so different. Mikhail hated him as much as he hated himself. And he hated the hold that Fomenko – as Vasily – seemed to have on Sofia. The image of her beautiful lithe body and proud mind, with its unshakeable loyalty to those she loved, swamped his thoughts as he paced through the hours of the night.

‘Sofia,’ he said, as the moon slipped out from behind the clouds, its light trickling into his bedroom, ‘don’t think I will let you go so easily.’

His decisions started to harden. He owed Fomenko, an eye for an eye. He owed Anna, a life for a life. But most of all, he owed himself.


Just before dawn she came to him. Slid into his bed, her feet chill on his and her heart beating as fast as a bird’s.

She smelled so strongly of forest secrets that he almost asked her where she’d been and what she’d been doing, but he remembered Rafik and said nothing. Instead he enfolded her in his arms. They lay like that, bodies moulded to each other, silent and still until the first fingers of daylight touched her hair and painted a blush on her cheek. She kissed his throat, a soft possessive brush of her lips.

‘You’re not Anna’s,’ she whispered.

‘No,’ he said firmly, ‘I’m not Anna’s.’


‘Wake up, you lazy toad. Rise and shine.’

Pyotr burrowed deeper into his pillow and ignored his father’s urging, but the bedcover was whisked away and a hand lifted him bodily from the bed.

‘Papa!’ he moaned. ‘It’s vikhodnoy, a holiday.’

‘We have a busy day ahead of us. Get dressed,’ his father said and strode from the room. ‘Don’t forget your friend Yuri will be here soon.’

Of course. Pyotr started to hurry, but suddenly he remembered the jewels they’d found yesterday and his heart gave a kind of hiccup inside his chest. He wanted desperately to tell Yuri about them but knew he couldn’t. It was a secret, not even to be shared with his best friend. When he’d stared into the casket at the fiery jewels, he’d felt their power in a way he never expected, so strong it made him nervous. He’d cradled an emerald ring in his hand, unwilling to let it go, and it shocked him, that feeling.

So where had it come from, this greed squirming inside him? Chairman Fomenko had been released and Pyotr knew for certain it was because of the power of the pearls. That meant corruption. So he should speak out, loud and clear. It was his duty. Speak out about the existence of these corrupting jewels, that’s what Yuri would say.

But how could he without denouncing Papa and Sofia? And without putting Chairman Fomenko’s freedom at risk? What was right and what was wrong?

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.