Anastasia

by Rupert Colley

This time she heard, she spun round quickly, a hand pointing out. The face – it was young, attractive even – but it wasn’t hers.

  A lifetime’s worth of disappointment crashed through him in a second – the realisation he’d spent seven years remembering one afternoon, seven years of expectation, of hope both unrealistic and unreal, and that the hope had finally died. ‘Sorry,’ he said knowing that he’d be saying sorry for the rest of his life. ‘I’m sorry, I thought...’

  He realised then that the hand pointing at him gripped a revolver. It fired once, twice. With the sound still thumping through his head, she turned and fled. Seizing his stomach, trying to stem the spray of blood, he didn’t see her scurry away. ‘Sorry,’ he said again as he fell to his knees. ‘Eva, I’m sorry...’

  3.

  I could hardly think; my mind whirled with jumbled thoughts and distorted images. I allowed George to lead the way, dragging me through the streets by the hand. I shivered in the November drizzle. ‘We’ve got to get to the station,’ he urged. ‘They’ve got the trains running again. We’re meeting Milan there. For God sake, Eva, hurry.’ Before leaving, I had grabbed every bit of food I could find and stuffed it into a small suitcase. Not much, I thought, but hopefully enough. I packed a few clothes. But nothing else.

  ‘What’s the point, the place will be teaming with AVOs.’

  ‘Not necessarily; they’re too busy reclaiming the streets. Anyway, we’ll see when we get there. Just come on. We haven’t got much time; there’s a train heading west due to leave at eleven.’

  The central station, when we got there, was a mass of people crowding the length of the platform, clambering onto the train. People were pushing and barging, shouting, yelling, a ceaseless flow of desperate faces. Children were crying, parents pleading with them to find the strength to fight and board the waiting train. The train’s engine was running, a thick pall of steam rising above the hoards towards the station canopy. ‘We’ll never find Milan in all this,’ said George. ‘Let’s get on.’ The carriages inside seemed packed, a seething bulk of people.

  ‘Don’t we need tickets?’

  ‘It’s too late, we’ll miss it.’ He was right – I spotted a couple of guards trying to keep order, demanding tickets but their task, against such a volume of people, was impossible. George gripped my hand and I held on, frightened of letting him go in the density of the crowd. A young couple ahead of us on the steps of the train were trying to collect their children. The man was about to jump off to gather a child. George, picking up the child, passed it to him. In return the man pulled George up onto the train, who, in turn, offered his hand and pulled me aboard. A whistle blew; the train was ready to go. Two conductors ran up and down the platform, slamming shut the doors only for them to immediately re-open as more people tried to scramble on. George and I were squeezed together. Every seat was taken, people sitting on each other’s laps; every inch of the aisles, toilets and doorways crammed with people and baggage. The train lurched forward, the door nearest to us still swinging open. The crowd surged forward as one, then back again as the train picked up speed. Finally someone managed to close the door. We were on our way.

  After half an hour, the train made its first stop. A few passengers alighted but the relief was only temporary as others took their place and forced their way on. Despite the number of people, the carriage was silent – no one talked for fear that among them might be AVO. But after another twenty minutes, rumours filtered down from one carriage to the next – every station would be brimming with AVOs, ready to detain all those suspected of trying to escape. Surely, I thought, that would mean virtually everyone. Another rumour reached us – that before the next stop, a village only a couple of miles before the border, the driver would slow down to allow people to jump off the train. It was a nice thought but no one believed it.

  But sure enough, thirty minutes later, the train did slow right down. ‘He’s done it,’ said George. The doors opened, and people took the plunge and jumped. Again, George led the way. With the grassy bank below us, he looked at me. ‘OK?’

  I hesitated, fearing the drop.

  ‘Don’t worry, he can’t be doing more than ten miles per hour.’

  ‘Hurry up, lad,’ came a voice behind me. George jumped, rolled over and immediately sprung to his feet.

  ‘Go on, miss, you can do it,’ urged the man, almost pushing me off the train.

  I jumped. I tumbled through the wet grass but George was right – I was fine. As we found our feet, our coats wet, I almost laughed. ‘Bless the driver,’ I said aloud.

  George smiled and together we watched the train disappear leaving a trail of smoke in its wake. I looked round – there were perhaps forty of us that had made the jump. Near me, a woman and a child, the child waving at the receding train. And there, among them, flapping his arms at us, was Milan. ‘Well, fancy meeting you here,’ he called out as he made his way towards us.

  I felt reassured by his presence.

  ‘Guess what – about three miles over there,’ he said, pointing vaguely over the horizon, ‘is Austria. And I, my friends, have come prepared – I have in my possession not only a map but a compass and even a torch.’

  ‘Milan,’ I said, ‘you think of everything.’

  ‘I have my military training to thank.’

  ‘And we’ve brought some food. Hard-boiled eggs, sausage and a couple of onions – pickled, and a couple of apples. George has got water.’

  ‘Well, this is going to prove to be one hell of a picnic.’

  ‘Ending with Austria and freedom,’ added George, beaming.

  ‘Yes, sir. All we have to do is keep walking westwards. We’ll have to avoid the roads; it wouldn’t be safe. It’s two o’clock. We could be there in a couple of hours, before nightfall if we’re lucky. You two ready? Let us go. Remember, the road to freedom starts with a single step.’

  ‘Thanks for that, Chairman Mao,’ said George.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said a voice. ‘Can we join you?’ It was the woman with the child. ‘I’ve also brought some food. Not much, but enough to share.’

  I could see Milan hesitating. ‘How old is she?’ he asked, glancing at the child.

  ‘Ten. But she won’t be a hindrance; will you, Roza?’

  The girl shook her head without conviction. Milan sighed.

  It was George who spoke. ‘Of course; the more the merrier.’

  The woman’s face broke into a smile, such was her relief. ‘My name is Petra,’ she said. ‘And this is my daughter, Roza.’

  We all made our introductions, shaking hands, as if meeting at a party. She looked at me fondly, as if relieved that she wasn’t the only woman.

  And so the five of us set out, buttoning our coats against the icy wind. The thick clouds moved quickly. Nearby, our fellow passengers had spread out but all walking in the same direction – towards the border and freedom.

  Milan’s “couple of hours” turned out to be twice as long. Traipsing through unending fields, mud and soggy ground hindered our progress. The group of forty had dispersed. The five of us were on our own. It was dark but for the light of the moon. My fingers felt numb but the ground was too precarious to allow the luxury of putting one’s hands into one’s coat pockets. Although shivering with cold and my shoes soaked through, I felt no undue concern, as long as we had Milan to guide the way with his compass and map and his eternal optimism.

  ‘I think we’re getting close,’ said Milan quietly. ‘Soon we should be coming across a canal on the other side of which is the border. But we can’t wade through the water; it could be deep in places and dangerously cold. But according to the map there should be some bridges further up.’

  ‘And then Austria?’ asked the woman, Petra.

  ‘I know – it seems too easy. We just walk across the bridge and into another country, another world.’

  ‘As long as they’re no trolls beneath the bridge,’ I said, wrapping my arms around myself.

  ‘You’re right. We should
be OK but we can’t be sure when those bastards might spring up. Someone on the train was saying that since the wire was cut they’ve reinforced the border controls. As long as we stay away from any watchtowers, we should be OK. Shall we feast?’

  ‘A feast it is not but yes, I’m starving,’ I said. ‘Are you hungry, Roza?’

  She nodded shyly. Petra and I shared out our provisions of food.

  ‘Bloody typical that we should have a full moon,’ said Milan, biting into a slice of bread and salami.

  ‘At least we can see where we’re going,’ said Petra.

  ‘Yeah but it makes us more visible to the AVOs.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘Those damned AVOs.’

  *

  Twenty minutes later, the last of our provisions consumed, we were still walking with no end in sight. Roza lost her balance in the mire and stumbled exhausted onto the ground. She started to cry. We all turned on her, silently beseeching her to remain quiet. Her mother knelt down and whispered words of encouragement in her ear. I helped Petra gently pull her up from the earth. Slowly, we picked our way forward.

  We entered an area of waist-height reeds. Milan carried the girl on his back. The soggy terrain sucked on our shoes, soaking our socks and the bottom of our legs. ‘George,’ I whispered, ‘I’m so cold.’

  ‘I know, but it can’t be much further now.’

  I blew on my fingers. I so wished I’d remembered to bring gloves.

  ‘It’s ironic, when you think about it,’ said Milan, as we trudged forwards under the light of the moon.

  ‘What’s that?’ said George.

  ‘We fought so hard to get rid of the fucking Soviets out of our country and instead it’s us that’s leaving.’

  ‘Milan,’ I said, ‘don’t swear in front of the girl.’

  The girl’s mother smiled at me.

  We trudged forward through ploughed fields, our feet sinking into the soft earth, our trousers soaked with wet mud, one slow step at a time. The enormity of what I was doing, of what we were doing, hadn’t hit me until this moment. We were leaving. We had embarked on a course of action that, if it failed, would certainly have us arrested and imprisoned. Or worse. Yet success seemed almost as daunting – here I was, trying to escape from my country, to bid it farewell, perhaps forever. To leave behind everything that I knew; a lifetime of memories, of familiar places, of familiar people. I pushed myself on, trampling through the reeds, so tired but not wanting to fall behind the boys, not wanting to appear a burden to them. I tried to think more positive thoughts – I could settle in a place where the church was allowed to exist without persecution; where I need not guard my every word. Freedom with a small suitcase of clothes. I offered a prayer. I wanted to exchange sometime in return for giving me the means to push myself on, for delivering us safely over the border. But I had nothing to offer except perhaps myself. Yes, that was it; it is what He would want – My Dear Lord, please help us. Deliver us from the evil we live in. In return I offer you my devotion. I can offer no more; no less.

  Ahead of us in the distance, the shimmering lights of a town. I stopped to catch my breath. Looking up at the moon I realised it had begun snowing. Snowflakes fell on my face. The wind cut through me. ‘You OK, Eva?’ said George. My feet felt so cold with the wet, so heavy.

  ‘I don’t think I can go on. I’m cold, George, so cold.’

  George put his arm round me and squeezed my shoulder. ‘You can do it, Eva. Think of what lies ahead.’

  ‘It can’t be far now,’ added Milan, readjusting the weight of the girl on his back.

  ‘Here, let me have a go,’ said George.

  Roza slid off Milan. Her mother knelt down and kissed her, whispering encouragement in her ear. She helped lift her daughter onto George’s back.

  ‘Where are we?’ she said, her voice rising in panic. ‘We seem to be stuck in a swamp. It’s coming up to our knees. There’s nothing as far as the eye can see.’

  ‘Oh, but there is,’ said Milan. ‘Can’t you see what I can see?’ With a renewed purpose, he strode forward, taking huge steps, sludging through the reeds.

  George and I glanced at each other and then followed, the girl on his back, her mother behind us. Sure enough, after about twenty yards, we were at the canal. We all stared at it silently, contemplating the slow flow of water between the steep banks. But it was wide – perhaps twenty metres. Hope mixed with despair. We were so close, so tantalizingly close, but the obstacle that lay between us and freedom seemed so daunting.

  ‘We have to find a bridge,’ said George.

  ‘Yes, there’ll be one at some point,’ said Milan. ‘Shall we go?’

  The sight of the canal to our left gave us all a renewed sense of determination. Surely, we thought, we’d find a bridge soon.

  For forty minutes or more, we walked silently with the wind blowing the sleet into our faces. The snow had given way to rain. Milan stopped short. We caught up. Roza slipped off George’s back. Her mother took her hand and rubbed it. At least they each remembered to bring gloves.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked George.

  ‘Look...’ There, on the opposite side of the canal, at the top of the bank, a flag hoisted on a flagpole. Red and white, the flag of Austria. Just a small stretch of water between us and freedom; my insides almost collapsed within me. I felt like crying.

  ‘And look what’s over there,’ said George, lowering his voice. Our eyes followed his, and what we saw frightened me so much I felt as if someone had punched me in the stomach – silhouetted on the horizon was the foreboding sight of a watchtower.

  ‘I think I’m standing on planks of wood,’ said Petra.

  George stamped his feet next to where she was standing. ‘This was the start of a bridge,’ he said. ‘There was a bridge here.’

  ‘Bastards,’ muttered Milan. ‘They’ve blown it up. We’re going to have to risk the water. I’ll take the child.’

  Roza gripped onto her mother still tighter. ‘Roza, do as the nice man says; he’ll carry you across the water to the other side. You have to trust him. Look... look at how tall he is.’

  ‘As tall as a goalkeeper,’ said Milan, stretching back his shoulders. He knelt down. Roza, keeping her eyes fixed on her mother, reluctantly climbed onto his back.

  A flare shoots up, illuminating the sky. Instinctively, we all crouch down. Just as we straighten ourselves, the sudden sound of machine-gun fire blast out. As one, we throw ourselves down, happy to taste the wet earth on our lips. But the blast is distant, aimed somewhere else, perhaps at others like us trying to escape. Cautiously, George gets up first. The landscape seems even quieter now as the echo of gunfire fades into the wind. We all rise, looking at each other for reassurance. The watchtowers loom high above us like huge black monsters. I’m convinced the guards will hear my heart beating.

  Petra, I notice, is crying. ‘I shouldn’t have done this,’ she says, wiping her eyes with a gloved hand. ‘Poor Roza. It would have been better if I stayed and taken my chances in Budapest.’

  George sees them first. ‘Get down,’ he urges, taking my hand. I see them too – moving shadows beyond the watchtower, running rapidly towards the canal. Suddenly, the shadows are exposed in a huge bright light. The machine-guns fire furiously as the searchlights beam down on them.

  ‘Now!’ said Milan in a sort of subdued yell. With the guards’ attention diverted to their right, we had a chance.

  George took my hand as we slid down the bank, leaving a trail of mud in our wake. Behind us Milan, with Roza clinging onto his back, and her mother holding her hand, glancing nervously towards the watchtower. I gasped as the water cut through my clothes like a thousand shards of ice, clasping my hand over my mouth to smother a shriek of pain. I’d lost contact with George. Where was he? I heard him swear. I glimpsed Milan struggling to maintain balance. Petra, her face creased with pain, tried to steady him. I could hear Roza crying, calling for her mother. ‘I’m here, my love, just a few more steps.’ The water
, so cold, was soon up to my waist. I could no longer feel my legs but my bones felt brittle with cold. The distance between George and I surprises me. His arms flail as he beats back the water. My heartbeat quickens as I hear another rattle of machine-gun fire. Somewhere, faraway, I hear a scream. Someone yells, a man. The water is receding; I’m over half way there. A light flicks on; it’s as bright as day. The watchtower has seen us. I can’t see; everything is but a white light. Machine guns crackle, their bullets thudding into the earth behind us. My time has come. My mind is blank with terror. Roza screams. Petra screams. Another fearful round of fire; this time little jets of water splash up around us as the bullets land so close. Some anguished cry frightens me further still. I realise it is me, sobbing uncontrollably but still I wade through, my legs fighting against the weight of water. But it’s getting easier. Another few steps, I’m on the bank. Glancing back, peering through the light, I see George has retraced his steps to help Milan buckling under the weight of the child. I scramble up the bank, my breaths coming in short, panicked grunts. More bullets, more splashes. I look heavenwards and realise I have fallen next to the flagpole. The others are on the bank, a huddle of figures, but they are not safe yet; they need to climb up. They’re too close to each other; they need to separate. George has taken Roza, holding her to his chest. Another round of gunfire. Halfway up the bank, George falls. Roza tumbles out from his arms. George clutches his thigh as the hot blood oozes through his fingers. Roza scrambles to her feet. George cries out urging the others forward but his voice is cut short as another bullet rips into his chest.

  Milan scoops the child up and scrabbles up the bank. Petra slips and slides back down. She screams at Roza to keep going, to keep going. I stretch my arms out for the girl. Roza falls into my embrace as Milan collapses next to me. Another burst of machine gun fire cuts her mother down as she screams at her daughter to keep going...

  The machine-guns stop their deadly work as suddenly as they’d started, the clattering rhythm fading into the night. The searchlights are switched off plunging the world into pitch-blackness.