Under a Blood Red Sky

21

Gigantic flames were ripping great holes in the belly of the night sky. Spitting and writhing, they leapt twenty metres into the air, so that even down at the river’s edge Mikhail Pashin could feel the sting of sparks in his eyes, the smoke in his lungs. He was on his knees, his trousers wet and his knuckles skinned, crouched over the water pump on the riverbank, struggling in the darkness to bring it to life. It had so far resisted all his coaxing and cursing. In frustration he clouted his heftiest wrench against the pump’s metal casing and instantly the engine spluttered, coughed, then racketed into action, sending gallons of river water racing up the rubber hose.

‘The scientific approach, I see,’ a voice said out of the darkness.

In the gloom he made out nothing at first, just the creeping shadows etched against the red glow of the sky, but then he saw a pale oval. A face close by.

‘It’s Sofia,’ she said.

‘I thought you were at my house, you and Pyotr.’

‘Don’t worry. Your son is safe in the stables with Zvezda and the priest.’

‘Good. They’ll be out of harm’s way up there.’

She moved closer, and as she did so one side of her face was painted golden by the flames, highlighting the fine bones of her cheek, the other side an impenetrable mask in the blackness. She stood over him, looking down, and for a brief second he was startled because he thought she was going to touch his hair, but instead she crouched down on her haunches on the opposite side of the pump. Their faces were on a level and he could see the firelight reflected off the glassy surface of the river and into her eyes. He was surprised by the humour in them on a night like this. She looked as if the fire were burning inside her.

‘The whole village is helping,’ she said. Her words merged with the clanking of the engine.

‘Yes, in an emergency the kolkhoz knows how to work together.’ He glanced over his shoulder to the spot where a long line of men and women, clutching buckets, snaked up from the river all the way to the burning barn. Each face was grim and determined.

‘A human pipeline,’ Sofia muttered.

‘Who the hell did this? Who would wish to burn down our barn?’

‘Mikhail, look who’s in the line.’

‘In the line? The villagers, you mean?’

‘And?’

‘The troops helping them.’

‘Exactly.’

‘What about them?’

He was running a hand over the engine to steady it, enjoying its heartbeat. The feel of machinery under his fingers always strengthened him in some strange indefinable way that he didn’t understand. Sofia’s hand reached out and lightly brushed his own.

‘Look at them,’ she said urgently.

He frowned. What did she mean? He studied the troops striving hard in the line to prevent the fire from spreading to a second barn. Their caps were smut-stained, their skin streaked with sweat, some wore kerchiefs tied over the lower half of their face to protect their lungs, some cursing and shouting for more speed, uniformed men all fighting side by side with the villagers.

‘Look hard,’ she whispered.

He looked.

Nothing. He could see nothing. What on earth was she talking about? Just the blackness and the clawing flames. The effort of all those workers. Then suddenly it dawned. His pulse raced as he realised this was the moment when the troops’ attention was totally diverted from the grain. Why the hell hadn’t he seen it himself? He leapt to his feet, abandoning the water pump to its own steady rhythm, and raced up through the drooping willows towards the centre of the village. Sofia matched him stride for stride.

‘Wait here,’ Mikhail ordered. ‘And make no sound.’

The small group of villagers nodded, huddled silent and invisible at the side of the blacksmith’s forge where the night wrapped them in heavy shadows. Four women, one of them sick, and two old men. Their backs didn’t look strong enough to hoist the sacks but they were all Mikhail could find inside the houses. Everyone else was up at the fire, so they’d have to do. Plus Sofia, of course. Just as he was about to edge away, she leaned close to him, her breath warm on his ear as she whispered, ‘Take care. I promised Pyotr I’d make sure you stayed safe.’

He couldn’t see her eyes, so he touched her hand in reassurance. It felt strong and swept away his doubts about the handling of the sacks.

‘I’ll be back,’ he promised and walked out into the main street.

It was dark and deserted now, except for the truck. Beside the truck stood a man with a long coat flapping at his ankles and a Mauser pistol in his fist. Mikhail glanced around but there were no other troops in sight. This one was leaning against the tailgate, cigarette in hand, guarding the sacks on the flatbed and waiting casually for his comrades to return, but there was nothing relaxed or casual about his face. His head turned with every moment that passed, eyes behind his thick spectacles scanning every point of access. He was no fool. He recognised the danger.

‘Oy moroz, moroz, nye moroz menya, Nye moroz menya, moevo kon,’ Mikhail began singing, loud and boisterous.

The words slipped over each other in his mouth. He aimed himself in the general direction of the truck but his feet wove from one side of the road to the other, stumbling and tripping, only just correcting themselves in time. He threw back his head and laughed.

‘Hey, comrade, my friend, how about a drink?’ His words came out slurred and he brandished a bottle of vodka he’d snatched from the smithy, at the same time looking around the dark street in a bewildered manner. ‘Where’sh everyone?’

The man pushed himself off the truck, threw the cigarette in the dirt and ground his heel on it. He regarded Mikhail with caution.

‘Who are you?’

‘I’m your friend, your good friend,’ Mikhail grinned lop-sidedly and thrust out the bottle. ‘Here, have a drink.’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’ Mikhail upended the bottle and took a slug of the vodka himself. He felt it burn the knots in his stomach. ‘Is good stuff,’ he mumbled.

‘You’re drunk, you stupid oaf.’

‘Drunk but happy. You don’t look happy, tovarishch.’

‘Neither would you if you had to deal with such-’

‘Here.’ Mikhail thrust the bottle at the man again. ‘Some left for you. You could be out here all night.’

The fire reflected in the man’s spectacles. His hesitation betrayed him, so Mikhail seized the hand that had discarded the cigarette and wrapped it round the bottle. ‘Put fire in your belly.’ He rocked on his heels with laughter. ‘Fire in your belly instead of in our barn.’

The man’s mouth slackened. He almost smiled.

‘Let’s have it.’ He took a mouthful. Smacked his lips.

‘Good?’

‘It’s cat’s piss. It’s no wonder you peasants are mindless. This homemade brew rots your brains.’

‘Come with me, Comrade Officer, and I will show you…’ Mikhail lowered his voice in conspiratorial style, ‘the real stuff. The good stuff.’

‘Where?’ Another swig.

‘In my house. It’s just over-’

‘No. Piss off. I’m guarding this truck.’

Mikhail yawned, stretched, scratched himself and stumbled on his feet.

‘Come, Comrade Officer, there’s no one here. Your sacks are safe.’ He draped an arm across the man’s shoulders, could smell cheap tobacco on his breath. ‘Come, friend, come and taste the good stuff.’

The man was drunker than a mule. His eyes turned pink and his tongue seemed too large for his mouth, so that the words slid off it into his glass. But when Mikhail yanked him to his feet after an hour of pouring his best vodka down the bastard’s throat, it came as a surprise at the door to find he still had a few wits clinging to him.

‘You come too,’ the man said, his head lolling on his thick neck.

‘No, my friend, I’m off to bed,’ Mikhail grinned.

He started to close the door but the man put his shoulder to it. ‘You come, my Tivil comrade. To the truck.’ With astonishing speed of hand for someone swilling with vodka he produced the Mauser and pointed it at Mikhail. ‘You come. Bistro. Quickly.’

So they stumbled up the road together, their path lit by the flames in the night sky. The truck loomed ahead. Even in the darkness it was obvious that the flatbed now held no more than a handful of sacks. The man stared at them and swallowed hard.

‘Where’s the grain?’

Shock was sobering him fast and with a grunt of effort he swung the pistol at Mikhail’s jaw, but Mikhail side-stepped it with ease. He was tempted to seize the gun and break the bastard’s skull with it but he knew any act of violence would lead to retribution for the whole village. Party officials were like cockroaches: you stamp on one and ten more come out of the woodwork. He tried walking away but the muzzle jammed against the back of his skull.

‘Tell me where the fucking grain is, you thieving village bastard. Right now.’

Mikhail didn’t move. ‘Comrade,’ he said with a slur, ‘you’ve got me all wrong. I am just-’

‘I’ll count to three.’

‘No, comrade-’

‘Odeen.’ One.

‘I know nothing about the grain.’

‘Dva.’ Two.

Mikhail’s body tensed, ready to lash out, but a quiet voice from the side of the truck distracted them both.

‘Comrade Officer, I think you have made a mistake.’ It was Sofia. She and the gypsy approached out of the darkness together as if it had been a cloak over their shoulders.

‘Who are you?’

‘I am Sofia Morozova. And this is my uncle, Rafik Ilyan, a member of the Red Arrow kolkhoz.’

‘You know where my grain is?’

‘Of course. It’s here.’

The gun released its pressure and Mikhail breathed. He swung round and saw Sofia waving what looked like a shawl in the officer’s face, her lips bone-white in the torchlight. Then suddenly Rafik was so close to the man that their shapes seemed to merge into one. The gypsy’s black eyes were sunk like boreholes in his head and he was holding fiercely on to the man’s arm, pressing his fingers into the flesh beneath the sleeve, and staring fixedly up into the narrow bloodshot eyes. And yet the officer made no word of complaint. What the hell was going on? The man was gazing back at the gypsy with a slightly baffled expression, as though he’d forgotten where he’d left his cigarettes rather than more then a dozen sacks of grain.

‘You made a mistake,’ Rafik stated clearly and, as he said it, his other hand whipped out and fixed on Mikhail’s arm. The gypsy’s voice was soft, but somehow it crept into Mikhail’s head and crawled through the coils of his brain until he could hear nothing else. ‘There were only ever four sacks in the truck, and you have them all there,’ Rafik said. ‘No grain is missing.’

Mikhail and the officer stared at the sacks. Away in the forest an owl screeched, or was it the bark of a fox? Sounds were tumbling around indistinctly in Mikhail’s head as the gypsy’s words spilled into the night air, and behind them was a dull roaring noise. He couldn’t quite recall what that was.

Of course there had only ever been four sacks. What had he been thinking of?

Sofia watched in disbelief.

From nowhere the gypsy had appeared at her elbow when she was shifting another sack off the back of the truck and he had helped her carry it to a small handcart. The cart was pushed away by an old woman with a crooked back and a mischievous grin that had more gaps than teeth to it. Hot cinders were floating down from the blood red sky like fireflies that nipped at the skin. Rafik draped a soft shawl over Sofia’s bare arms.

‘Come,’ he said and led her round to the front of the truck where they were hidden by the black shadow of the church. ‘You want to help Mikhail Pashin?’

‘Yes.’

‘He has done well, but now the danger will be great for him when the officer returns.’

Sofia could feel the skin on her face tighten and prickle, as if ants’ feet were swarming over it. ‘What can I do?’

‘I will deal with the man in my own way. But I need you to distract his attention so that I can get close to him.’

It occurred to Sofia that the gypsy appeared so frail he didn’t look as if he could deal with a pack of cards right now, never mind an armed OGPU officer.

‘Rafik,’ she said with concern, ‘you’re not well.’

The sound of footsteps echoed up the shadowy street. Men’s voices were coming closer and one of them was Mikhail’s. She had no choice, she had to trust Rafik.

‘Distract him, Sofia.’

It was the sight of the gun jammed against Mikhail’s skull that nearly robbed her of control. But she managed to say calmly, ‘Comrade Officer, I think you have made a mistake.’ And a moment later she was flapping her shawl at him, the edge of it just clipping his jaw and making his eyes flare with annoyance. But what Rafik did then was beyond anything she’d ever seen. In some strange, impossible way he seemed to take hold of the men’s minds, first the OGPU officer’s and then Mikhail’s, and manipulate their thoughts the way a child shifts and shuffles a set of toy bricks. She stared in disbelief at Mikhail, at the boneless way his arms hung at his sides and the confused expression in his eyes, as the glare from the blaze turned them red.

‘Sofia!’

Rafik had to repeat it. ‘Sofia!’

She blinked and saw the gypsy stumble in the darkness. Her hand shot out to steady him and she could feel the tremors shaking his body under the light cotton of his shirt.

‘Go,’ he urged and his voice was weak. ‘Run to the schoolhouse. Tell Elizaveta to bring the key to the chamber. Now. Run!’

The schoolhouse stood at the bottom of the village street, a modern box of a building with a neat low fence around it and a central doorway that threw out a yellow stain of light on to the shadows of the path. The windows to the left of the entrance were dark, presumably the schoolrooms, but Sofia could see a red glaze shimmer like oil across them as the billows of smoke and sparks in the night sky were reflected in the glass. The single window to the right gleamed brightly from within. So the teacher was at home. Sofia ran up the path, relieved, but could-n’t help wondering why Elizaveta Lishnikova wasn’t at the fire.

She banged on the door.

The door flew open immediately and Sofia was convinced the woman had been standing on the other side of it, listening for footsteps. Something about the tall grey-haired teacher who observed her with such bright, hawkish eyes steadied Sofia’s racing heart. This woman wasn’t the kind of person who would take risks unnecessarily. That thought comforted her.

Sofia spoke quickly. ‘Rafik sent me.’

‘What does he want?’

‘The key.’

The teacher’s mouth opened, then shut again abruptly. ‘He told you about the key?’

‘Yes, the key to the chamber, he said. He needs you to bring it to him.’

There was a pause. Even in the darkness Sofia could feel the spikes of the woman’s suspicion.

‘Wait here.’

But the moment Elizaveta Lishnikova disappeared back into the hallway of her schoolhouse, Sofia followed her and shut the door. Standing outside on the path, spotlit by the lamp in the hall, was an open invitation to any troops who might decide they’d had enough of firefighting. Besides, the door Elizaveta had disappeared through had been left ajar, and the temptation to look was too great.

What she saw astonished her. The room was like something out of a St Petersburg salon, alive with colour: the deep maroon carpet covering the floor was of intricate Indian design; the table and cabinets clearly French from the last century, with ornate curlicues, gilt handles and an exquisite inlay of ivory, burrwood and vivid green malachite; the curtains wine-red swathes of heavy silk. A magnificent ormolu clock ticked loudly in pride of place.

Sofia caught her breath and Elizaveta raised her head from what looked to be a secret drawer in the side of a fine satinwood desk. Her long back straightened and she faced Sofia with a sudden pulse of colour high on her cheeks.

‘So I was right,’ Elizaveta said quietly. ‘You are a spy for Deputy Stirkhov, aren’t you?’

‘No.’

The two women locked eyes, the older woman’s face growing ever more angular in her conviction, but Sofia said nothing more. If she did, she might say too much and not know when to stop.

‘No,’ she repeated firmly.

The schoolteacher didn’t dispute it further. ‘I did not invite you inside this room. Please leave.’

‘I’ll wait in the hallway,’ Sofia said. ‘Be quick.’

She left the beautiful room and a moment later Elizaveta Lishnikova joined her, with two keys in her hand. One she used to lock her private room, afterwards sliding it into the thick coil of grey hair at the back of her head. Sofia was impressed.

‘You have the key to the chamber – whatever that is?’

‘Of course,’ the teacher nodded.

‘Then let’s take it to Rafik.’

‘Not you.’

‘What?’

‘I want you to stay here. In the hallway. Don’t leave it.’

‘Why?’ Sofia was impatient to return to Mikhail.

‘In case the troops come searching. They most likely won’t but… they might.’ The older woman’s careful brown eyes scanned Sofia appraisingly. ‘You look the kind of person who could keep them out of my school. Guard it well. I’m trusting you.’

With a whisk of her grey shawl the teacher was gone, the door closing quietly behind her. Sofia paced the scuffed boards in frustration. She wanted to be out there, ensuring that Mikhail and Rafik were not tossed into the truck in place of the sacks. She hated being left behind to watch over some irrelevant little schoolhouse.

What was there to guard anyway, other than some pieces of fine furniture? And what did Elizaveta Lishnikova mean when she said Sofia was the kind of person who could keep the troops out of the school? That she was in league with the OGPU forces? That she would argue well against them? Or that she had the youth and the feminine wiles to turn troops from their course?

Oh, to hell with the woman! Sofia banged her fist against the wall in frustration.

It was some minutes later that she first heard the noise. A tiny, whimpering sound, like a mouse in pain. She wondered if it could be a creature that had fled from the barn fire. Then the sound stopped as suddenly as it began.

Sofia resumed her pacing of the narrow hallway, her mind struggling to make sense of what she’d seen Rafik do to the officer and to Mikhail with what looked like no more than a touch of his hand, but before she’d conjured up once more the intense gaze that had burned in the gypsy’s eyes, the noise started up again. Louder now. A recognisable wail this time.

It seemed to be coming from behind the other door in the hall, the one she assumed led into the schoolroom. Her breath grew shallow and she could feel the hairs rise on the back of her neck, but she wasn’t going to stand here doing nothing. She lifted the oil lamp from its bracket and pushed open the door. The lamplight leapt in ahead of her, looping in great arcs though the pitch darkness, jumping off the windows and lighting up a clutch of small pale circles. It took her a second to recognise them as faces. Children’s faces, pale and wide-eyed with fear.

Children from less than five years old up to ten or eleven were seated there, each one silent at a desk. Eleven pale moons in the darkness and, in front of each one on the desktop, a bundle of some sort, some large and lumpy, others small and strong-smelling. Nearly all the children had their thin arms wrapped protectively around the bundle of food they had saved from their homes. One older boy had a zinc bucket at his feet stacked high with what looked like grain of some sort.

The noise was coming from a tiny girl. She was sobbing, and an older girl had her hand clamped across the little one’s mouth, but still the mouse-pain sound squeezed its way out. Quickly Sofia took the lamp back into the hall and replaced it in its bracket, so that no light showed in the schoolroom. She returned to the children and, as she shut the door behind her, she heard their collective sigh. She groped her way to the teacher’s chair at the front and sat down.

‘Now,’ she whispered softly, ‘I’ll tell you a story. But you must stay quiet as little mice.’