The Red Scarf

by Kate Furnivall

  But already she missed the energetic young rider, missed the warmth of his body against her chest. It was with a strange reluctance that she kept her feet walking away from the city, and one of her father’s favorite words—tenacity—floated down into her young mind, as soft flakes of snow began to fall.

  THE scarf, the red scarf.

  That was the detail that always caught in Anna’s mind and snagged, the way a sleeve snags on a briar. She couldn’t unhook it however hard she tried. Of course, with so many young men fighting for the Bolsheviks, probably half of them were wearing red scarves.

  But she couldn’t shake her stubborn brain free from the knowledge that she had given a red scarf to Vasily that Christmas. She had knitted it herself specially for him, and he’d kissed her with a great whoop of delight and sworn to wear it always.

  Could he have been this impetuous horseman of Sofia’s childhood? Anna always wondered about it and plagued herself with the wondering. Vasily had repeatedly refused to take Anna on any of his wild escapades, declaring that it was too dangerous, yet—if it was Vasily that night—he was willing to ride through the gates of hell with Sofia clinging to his back.

  A tiny worm of jealousy squirmed into being, and she stamped on it again and again until it was nothing but a green lifeless smear. Sofia would never betray her.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  DEPUTY Stirkhov’s office was not at all what Sofia expected. It was stylish. A spacious chrome-legged desk with shiny black top, a gleaming chrome clock and desk lighter, and curved tubular chrome chairs with pale leather seats. Of course it boasted the usual bust of Lenin on a prominent shelf and a two-meter picture of Stalin on the wall, but Lenin with his pointed beard was carved out of white marble rather than plaster, and the portrait of Stalin was an accomplished original oil painting. On another wall hung framed lithographs of Rykov and Kalinin. This was a man who knew how to get hold of what he wanted.

  Sofia sat in one of the chairs and crossed her legs, swinging one foot casually though the pulse in her scarred fingertips was pounding like a fresh wound, a sure sign of nerves. She accepted a glass of vodka, even though it was still only midmorning. She felt it heat the chill that had seeped so suddenly into her bones.

  “Thank you, Comrade Deputy. I didn’t expect to find such a modern office in a town like Dagorsk.”

  “Modern in mind, modern in body,” he said self-importantly, settling himself behind the expansive desk.

  He flicked open a Bakelite box and offered her an elegant tan-colored cigarette that didn’t look Russian to her. Imported goods were not often to be seen these days, not openly anyway, though everyone knew they were available in the special shops that only the Party elite could enter. She shook her head and he lit one for himself, drew on it deeply, and scrutinized her with an appraising look. She still hadn’t worked out exactly what this pale-eyed man wanted from her when he’d suggested “a talk in my office.”

  “You are new to this area. And to Tivil?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am very interested in Tivil.”

  She didn’t like the way he said it. “It’s a hardworking village,” she pointed out, “much like any other. Of no particular interest, it seems to me.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Comrade Morozova.”

  He threw back his shot of vodka and poured himself another. Sofia waited, aware of the value of silence with a man like this, who would always be tempted to fill it. He seemed to puff himself up with each drink, his round face growing rounder. His skin was shiny on his cheeks, as if he polished them each morning like apples. His suit was crisp, though slightly worn at the elbows, and he had the look of a sleek tomcat. She had no doubts about the sharpness of his claws.

  “Tivil,” he said flatly, “is not like any of the other villages in my raion. It keeps tripping up my officers and making fools of them. They go out there to ensure that quotas are filled, that sufficient livestock and crops are handed over, that taxes are paid and the required number of labor-days worked for the raion digging ditches and mending roads. But what do they come back with?”

  He leaned forward in his chair and stared at her expectantly. She stared back, and it was as if something flowed into the silence between them, something menacing.

  “They come back with lists,” he snapped. “Lists all neatly ticked, goods checked off, each page endorsed with an official stamp.” His fist came down on the desk, making the clock quiver. “It’s nonsense. At the end of each week there is a discrepancy between what is and what should be. That’s why I went out there the other evening to settle matters myself.”

  Sofia sipped her drink and showed little interest in his tale of woe.

  “But it happened again,” he growled. “Everything went wrong. And I know who to blame.”

  “Who?”

  Stirkhov hunched his head between his shoulders. “That’s not your business.”

  “So why,” she asked with just the right touch of impatience, “have you asked me here?”

  “Because you are an outsider. You are not yet a part of that close-knit community. Instead of shitting all over each other to gain extra privileges for themselves like other villages do, the Tivil bastards keep their mouths shut and stare at you with stone-hard eyes as if you’d crawled out from under a dog turd. Yet I can’t . . .” Frustration made him fumble for words. “. . . I can’t find the crack in their shell that will . . .” He shook his head from side to side and lifted his glass to his lips.

  “A man like you would keep a Party spy in their midst,” Sofia said amiably, “I’m certain.”

  “Of course.” He waved a dismissive hand. “But the bedniak is worse than useless except for petty tittle-tattle. Spends too much time inside a bloody vodka bottle.” He seemed oblivious to the irony as he knocked back his third vodka of the morning.

  “So why have you asked me here?”

  “To warn you.”

  “To warn me? Of what?”

  He smiled smoothly. “Of danger.”

  “What kind of danger?”

  “Word is going around that it was you who started the fire.”

  Her breathing grew tight as her lungs turned to lead. She gave a light laugh, but Stirkhov wasn’t smiling now.

  “That’s absurd,” she said. “I had nothing to do with it. Why on earth would I set fire to the barn?”

  “A grudge?”

  “No, Comrade Deputy Stirkhov, I assure you I bear no grudge against the village. My uncle has kindly taken me in, and I am grateful to him and to Tivil. Who is spreading such malicious rumors? Tell me. Is it your spy? Because if so, you should get rid of the fool. Believe me, I wouldn’t ever commit such a criminal act against Soviet property or . . .” She stopped and released her tight grip on the edge of the desk. Her knuckles were white. “Thank you for the warning, Comrade Deputy. I will take care. It’s obvious that whoever torched the barn is trying to shift the blame onto me.”

  He was observing her with shrewd eyes. “Interesting,” he murmured softly. “Not much like a gypsy, are you?”

  “My father’s sister, who brought me up, was married to Rafik’s brother.”

  Stirkhov picked up his gold-tipped fountain pen and scribbled a note on the pad in front of him, considered it for a moment, then placed his elbows on the desk.

  “Let me see your dokumenti, comrade.”

  It was an offense not to carry identity papers at all times, papers that stated her place of residence, her date and place of birth, and her father’s name. And to leave the kolkhoz without official permission to do so was a second offense. She recrossed her legs, slowly, and watched his eyes follow the movement.

  “Deputy Stirkhov, I have a suggestion to put to you first.”

  He stood up, walked around to her side of his desk, perched his plump bottom on its edge, and rested a hand on her knee. She refrained from slapping his wrist away.

  “What kind of suggestion?” he asked.

  “It seems to me that you ne
ed someone new in Tivil. Someone . . . with fresh eyes.”

  “Someone like you.”

  “Exactly like me.”

  His smile returned, a smile meant to charm, and the tip of his pink tongue popped out for a brief second. “You will report to me only.”

  “Of course.”

  “And in exchange?”

  “You pay me. Each week. One hundred roubles. Fifty now to seal the agreement.”

  “Hah! You must think me stupid.” He leaned over her, and she could smell French tobacco on his breath. “Don’t underestimate me, Comrade Morozova.” His hand tightened on her knee. “You bring me information and then we’ll talk money.”

  She laughed and stood up, tipping his hand off her leg. “An empty stomach dims one’s eyes and ears, Deputy Stirkhov. I do not hear well when my stomach growls.”

  She held out a hand, palm upward.

  He looked at it, then at her. And licked his lips.

  “Very well. Ten roubles now.”

  “Fifty.”

  He narrowed his eyes.

  “Fifty,” she repeated. “It will be worth it to you.”

  “It had better be.”

  “It will, I promise.”

  He reached into his inside pocket and produced a fifty-rouble note, which he placed in her hand. As her fingers curled around it, he stepped forward to kiss her, but she swung her head so that his lips barely brushed her ear. She hid a shiver, lowered her eyes demurely, and escaped to the door.

  “Comrade Morozova,” Stirkhov said sharply. “I expect much of you.”

  She gave him a dazzling smile. “So do I.”

  Isaw you watching me.” Zenia stepped out into Sofia’s path as she left the Raikom offices. "I’m supposed to be at work in the factory already, but ...” Her cheeks flushed and she lowered her eyes shyly.

  The young gypsy girl’s wild hair was tamed under a bright yellow kerchief tied at the nape of her neck, and her scoop-necked blouse, though old, was clean and showed more of her smooth olive skin than perhaps Rafik would approve. A green cotton skirt swung from her hips. Sofia could understand why any soldier would come calling.

  “Zenia,” she said, “you look lovely. Who was your friend?”

  Zenia blushed deeper. “His name is Vanya.”

  “He works for OGPU, I see, the secret police.”

  Zenia’s black eyes darted defensively to Sofia’s face. “I haven’t told him anything. About you, I mean.”

  Sofia stepped nearer and could smell the musky scent of sex on her. “Zenia,” she whispered, “the secret police are clever. You will tell him things without even knowing you’re doing it.”

  Zenia tossed her head scornfully. “I’m not a fool. I don’t say . . .” but she paused as though remembering something, and her eyes clouded. “I don’t say anything I shouldn’t,” she finished defiantly.

  “I’m glad. Guard your tongue, for Rafik’s sake.”

  Zenia looked away.

  “It’s all right, Zenia, I won’t say anything.”

  The dark eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  “I won’t say anything about Vanya. To Rafik, I mean,” Sofia added.

  Zenia smiled, a sweet grateful smile that made Sofia lean forward and brush her cheek against the girl’s. “But be careful. They will be stalking Tivil village after what happened with the procurement officer, and you may be their way in.”

  “He loves me,” Zenia said simply as she flounced away, young hips swaying and head held high, attracting glances from passing men.

  “He loves me,” Sofia echoed, as if trying the words for size in her own mouth. Then she turned and retraced her steps through the shabby streets back toward the river.

  TWENTY-SIX

  MIKHAIL’S office was dark. Its small window let in a square patch of sunlight that was sliding across the floorboards toward the door as if trying to escape. He was often tempted to relocate to an office in the bright new extension he’d had built alongside the old factory, but he always changed his mind at the last moment because he knew he needed to be here, overlooking the factory floor, visible to his workers each time they raised their heads from their machines. It discouraged malingering.

  His office was up a flight of stairs that led off the vast expanse of the factory floor, so that the incessant rattle and clatter of the bobbing needles were as much a part of his work life as breathing. Nothing more than a wall of glass divided him from his workforce, which meant he could look down on the rows of hundreds of sewing machines and check the smooth running of his production line at a glance. He’d installed modern cutting machines in the extension, but in here the machines were so old and temperamental that they needed constant attention, damn them. He had to watch them like a hawk because spare parts were like gold dust and the girls at the machines weren’t always as careful as they should be.

  He stood looking out at them now, hands in his pockets, feeling restless and unable to concentrate. On his desk a stack of forms, permissions, orders, and import licenses awaited his signature, but this morning he could summon up no interest in them. He loosened his tie and rolled up the white sleeves of his shirt. She’d unsettled him with her lies. With the challenge in her eyes, as though daring him to do something but refusing to say what it was.

  He laughed out loud. At himself and at her. Whatever it was that Sofia Morozova was up to, he was glad she’d arrived in Tivil like a creature from the forest, wild and unpredictable. She made his blood flow faster and in some indefinable way altered the balance in his mind, so that he was left with the feeling that he was flying high in the air once more. He gave another laugh but then frowned and lit himself a cigarette, trying to breathe her in with the smoke. All kinds of memories were stirring, ones he’d thought were dead and buried, but now they were coming to life. They picked and prodded and chipped away at him so that he ached all over. What was it about Sofia that had set this off? Just because she was fair-haired and blue-eyed and had a fiery spirit like . . . ?

  No, he slammed the door shut on it all. What good did looking back do? None at all. He drew hard on his cigarette and exhaled over the glass, fogging it with smoke so that the women and their machines became an indistinct blur. He tried to imagine Sofia down there, working all day at one of the benches and couldn’t. It twisted his brain into shapes it wouldn’t take. Sofia was a skylark, like himself. Too much of an individual in a country where individuality and initiative were stamped on by the heavy relentless boot of the state. Conform or die. Simple.

  A knock on the door distracted him.

  “Come in,” he said, but he didn’t turn. It would be his assistant, Sukov, with yet another pile of the endless paperwork for his attention.

  “Comrade Direktor, you have a visitor.”

  Mikhail sighed. The last thing he wanted right now was an ignorantofficial from Raikom breathing down his neck or a union inspector looking for trouble.

  “Tell the bastard I’m out.”

  An awkward pause.

  “Tell the Comrade Direktor this bastard can see he’s in.”

  It was Sofia. Slowly, savoring the moment, he turned to face her. She was standing just behind his assistant, eyes amused, breathing fast as though she’d been running, and even in her drab clothes she made the office instantly brighter.

  “Comrade Morozova, my apologies,” he said courteously. “Please take a seat. Sukov, bring some tea for my visitor.”

  Sukov rolled his eyes suggestively, the impertinent wretch, but remembered to close the door after him. Instead of sitting, Sofia walked over to stand beside Mikhail at the glass wall and stared with interest at the machinists at work. Her shoulder was only a finger’s width away from his arm. A faint layer of brick dust lay on the angular bone of her elbow, where she’d nudged against something, and down the side of her skirt. It made her look vulnerable, and he had to stop himself from brushing it off.

  “A pleasure to see you again so soon and so unexpectedly.” He smiled and gave her a formal little n
od. “To what do I owe this treat?”

  She gave him a sideways glance, raising an eyebrow at his ironic tone, but instead of answering she tapped the glass with one finger.

  “The worker ants,” she murmured.

  “They work hard, if that’s what you mean.” He paused, studying the way her skin whitened under the curve of her jaw. “Would you really want to be one of them?”

  She nodded. “It’s money,” she said, and she abruptly swung around to face him. “It’s very noisy in here.”

  “Is it?”

  “You mean you don’t notice?”

  He shook his head. “I’m used to it. It’s quieter here than down there in the sewing room. I issue earplugs, but half the women don’t bother to wear them.”

  She looked out at the hundreds of heads bent over the machines. “What nimble fingers they have.”

  “They have to work fast to meet their quotas.”

  “Of course, the quotas.”

  “The curse of Russia,” he said, and he touched her shoulder, just on the spot where a tear in her blouse was mended with tiny neat stitches.

  She didn’t draw away. “It looks to me,” she said thoughtfully, “as though the machines are working the women rather than the other way around.”

  “That is Stalin’s intention. No people, just machines that do what they’re told.”

  “Mikhail!” Sofia hissed sharply, glancing toward the door. In a low whisper she warned, “Don’t talk so.” Her eyes met his. “Please.”

  The door opened and they stepped apart. Sukov entered with a tray that he set down on the desk with a show of attention that made Mikhail want to laugh. He was a pale-skinned young man with tight blond curls who usually made a point of resenting any menial task now that Mikhail had elevated him from the tedium of quality control to Direktor’s Assistant. But he was well in with the union leaders and knew how to keep them off Mikhail’s back, so Mikhail tolerated his idiosyncrasies. He was astonished to see two pechenki on a china plate. Where on earth had Sukov found cookies? A bribe from somewhere, no doubt. Mikhail would remember that.