And Misha, with his foolish infatuation that had probably cost him his life . . . Dear Misha. He had had such great hopes for him . . . Yegor was certain he would never see him again. He drank down another full glass of vodka and wondered bitterly how a good man like him could deserve such ill fortune.
Chapter 28
Vladimir did not return to Antonina Ovechkin’s apartment that evening or the next. Baba Nina did not seem overly concerned. ‘It is quite normal,’ she said, but for Misha and Valya it was agony.
‘You must put this time to good use,’ said Nina. ‘From now on I will only call you by your new names, and that is how you shall address each other. Alexander and Katerina. Sasha and Katya. You must create a believable past life in Kiev. Who were your parents? What did they do? Just have one. Your father left when you were tiny. Are they still alive? No. Your mother died in the fighting. Killed by bombs . . . Keep it as simple as possible.’
‘I know Kiev a bit,’ said Misha. ‘My brother lives there.’
‘Papa’s family came from there,’ said Valya. ‘I’ve been a few times too.’
‘Good,’ said Nina. ‘Write down your story in as much detail as you can. No one will question you on the way, they’ll be too busy, but when you get there you’ll have busybodies asking questions and you must be ready for them.’
They studied hard, constantly taking it in turns to ask the other their life story. Details of old schoolmates were easy enough. They could use exactly the same friends. They made up an imaginary father and mother, picking their favourite bits from each real parent. That was the most difficult thing to do. Each of them came close to tears.
‘We’ve no time to be sad . . . Sasha,’ said Valya, who was finding it difficult to remember to use their new names.
Nina had them go through her collection of spare clothes to find the warmest coats they could. There was a great pile of odds and ends in a large cupboard in the hall. Misha wondered how many other people she had helped. She took the clothes they had arrived in and washed them and ensured they each had their bag packed and ready. ‘You must be ready to go at a moment’s notice.’
Night fell for the third evening and they retired to bed. ‘He will be here tomorrow, I am sure of it,’ said Baba Nina.
Misha had discovered Valya was a restless sleeper. She snored like a trooper and often spoke in her sleep. She dreamed often of her papa, calling out for him as he was taken away. Sometimes she woke distraught and they hugged tenderly, like frightened children. Near the dawn, when she saw that he was awake too, she said, ‘You know how some of the old people are so bitter and a bit haunted? You feel they are carrying secrets – something terrible that happened to them, or something they did that will spill out one day and that will be it – the early morning knock on the door . . . I think about what else we’ll have to live through in this war, and I wonder what sort of parents we’ll become, and whether our grandchildren will be frightened of us.’
Misha thought about this. Before they drifted back to sleep he said, ‘But Antonina’s not like that. She’s still kind and terrible things have happened to her. If we survive, Valya, let’s try to be like her.’
The following morning Nina woke them with a knock on the door. ‘He’s been,’ she announced with a proud smile and produced a whole pile of documents and passes, all stamped with the seal of the NKVD. She held them up to the light too, so they could see the watermark in the paper. ‘My Vladimir always does a very thorough job.’
There were new identity papers, travel permits stamped with the seal of the People’s Commissariat of Defence, a succession of train tickets for a journey starting at 3.00 that afternoon from Kazan Station, ration cards, and an address for the barracks where they would stay when they arrived. They were to assemble at the station at 2.00.
Misha hardly dared to look, but when he did he saw the tickets would take them to Noyabrsk.
‘We’re both going to the aeroplane instruments factory,’ he said with a grin.
‘Read through your new lives a final time,’ instructed Nina. ‘Then give me your notes so I can burn them in the stove.’
As they waited out the rest of the morning, they played with Antonina Ovechkin’s cat. ‘What about your cat, Katya?’ asked Misha. ‘Are you worried about her?’
She laughed. ‘She will look after herself. Kotya doesn’t care who feeds her or makes a fuss of her. If the Germans get here, she will make friends with them too. Maybe that’s how we will have to survive for the next few years. Make friends with anyone who will do us favours – but not Germans of course! It’s a callous way to look at the world, but maybe that’s the only way we’ll stay alive.’
Moscow was still in chaos when they stepped away from the safety of Antonina Ovechkin’s top-floor apartment. They left her with tearful hugs and knew they would never see her again. The last thing she did was press a bag bulging with bread, cheese and dried meat into Misha’s hands.
Out in the street it was snowing hard and everyone was hurrying one way or another. Moscow, on the verge of battle, was in utter chaos. Fortunately the route to Kazan Station was simple enough and easy to make on foot – a succession of boulevards led north-east to the terminus. They argued about whether they should walk together or apart. Misha thought it safer to split up. But Valya said, ‘We’re supposed to be brother and sister.’ They walked together.
Kazan Station was a seething mass of milling people, shouting, whistles, crying babies, wailing children. It was hell.
Their instructions were simple. A train to Nizhny Novgorod and then another out to Noyabrsk. In the street no one had asked to see their papers. Here, in the dense crush, a railway guard briefly checked their travel permits and tickets. Aboard the train to Nizhny Novgorod a harassed Militia man had waded through the densely packed passengers, checking their papers. He spent barely ten seconds on each passenger, before he squeezed along to the next. The train left an hour late and steamed uninterrupted through frequent towns and villages, factories and dense birch forest. Every hour they travelled, the safer they felt.
They waited a day at Nizhny for their connection and discovered scores of other passengers were also going there to work at the new factory. Misha was extremely grateful to Antonina Ovechkin for her advice. He hoped he and Valya sounded convincing in their new identities.
It was dusk and a beautiful light fell over the West Siberian Plain. They had been travelling three days now from Nizhny, and the view from the window had barely changed, save for the passage of the sun across the sky. Valya was asleep, resting her head on Misha’s shoulder. He stared out as the endless landscape rolled past to the steady beat of the wheels on the rails. Aside from a few low bushes which cast deep shadows, it was like being adrift on a great pink sea. It was a beautiful country, never more so than when it was covered in snow. Misha had never been this far east before and had never quite realised how huge his country was. He thought of Napoleon, and he thought of the Hitlerites, and he knew in his heart, with absolute conviction, that anyone who invaded his Russia was inviting their own destruction.
The train took a long curve as it began to head north and the black shadow of the locomotive, its carriages and the long, dancing plume of engine smoke, fell out stark against the ground. They would be there soon, maybe in a day or two. Then, when they were settled, Misha was sure he would find his mother.
His eyes felt heavy and, as he began to drift off, a line from Chekhov’s Three Sisters came into his head: ‘Life isn’t finished for us yet! We are going to live!’
Glossary of Soviet Era and Russian Terms
Babushka Grandmother/Grandma. Often used to mean an old lady. Sometimes shortened to Baba.
Bourgeois Middle-class or, more widely, prosperous. Also used to mean having middle-class taste and values, especially those disapproved of by the Soviet regime.
Dacha Modest holiday or weekend home in the (pron. dasha) country. Many Russians owned a dacha, usually within easy travelling distance of thei
r home town.
Devotchka Girl or young woman. Used as a term of endearment, like ‘darling’.
Kommunalka Building converted into small, crudely partitioned living spaces, with shared kitchens and bathrooms – a government remedy to the chronic overcrowding in Moscow during the early Soviet era.
Komsomol Youth wing of the Communist Party. For 16-year-olds upwards who are candidates for Party membership.
Komsorg Supervisor of Komsomol cadets in a school.
NKVD People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs – the Soviet secret police.
Partisan Member of the armed groups who fought against the German occupying forces. A particular feature of the war on the Eastern Front.
Politburo Committee of top ministers in Stalin’s government.
Pravda Soviet era newspaper, written and produced by the regime. Pravda means ‘truth’.
Proletarian Member of the working class, such as a factory worker or a labourer.
Rasputitsa Season of rain and mud that arrives in spring and autumn.
Ulitsa Street.
Vozhd (pron. Vajd) Boss. Stalin’s staff called him this.
A Note on Names
Russian names are a complex business. The name itself is in three parts: a first name, a patronymic (meaning a name derived from the father’s name) and a surname. Also, when the person is female, most Russian surnames take an ‘a’ at the end, for example Petrov becoming Petrova. For the sake of clarity, I have just given my characters a first name and a surname, and I have not changed surnames to reflect gender.
Russian first names are often shortened by friends and family, as they are in the West. For example, my two main characters, Mikhail and Valentina, call each other ‘Misha’ and ‘Valya’.
In the 1920s and 1930s many children were given newly invented names, based on Soviet leaders or Revolutionary themes, such as Barikada (after the barricades Communist soldiers used to defend themselves during the Revolution), Vladlen (based on Vladimir Ilyich Lenin) or Marklen (based on ‘Marxist Leninist’). Lenin and Karl Marx were the two leading political theorists of the new Soviet state.
Fact and Fiction
Although Misha, Valya and their contemporaries are fictional characters, I have tried to depict the circumstances of their lives as realistically as possible. I have also tried to depict Stalin as he was, and many of the incidents about him in this story are inspired by reported events – the notes from his daughter, Svetlana, the conversations between him and his generals, the occasion where his vodka bottle is filled with water.
The incident at Kazan Station, in October 1941, where Stalin decides the government will stay in Moscow, is also based on eyewitness accounts. Most of the characters that surround the Vozhd are real too: Beria, Rokossovsky, Zhukov, Molotov, as is their reported behaviour.
After unsatisfactory experiments with a six day week in the 1930s the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet restored the seven-day week in 1940. As I understand it, the days of the week were given numbers rather than names – Day One, Day Two, etc. – and the seventh day was known as Rest Day. Despite this, most of the population still referred to days of the week by their original pre-Revolutionary names.
I have taken some liberties with the structure and personnel in Stalin’s secretarial staff. Yegor Petrov performs some of the duties of Stalin’s actual secretary, Alexander Poskrebyshev, although Yegor is an entirely fictional character.
Acknowledgements
Thanks as ever to my magnificent editorial team, Ele Fountain and Isabel Ford, who shaped and polished the story with tact and dexterity. My agent, Charlie Viney, offered valuable advice and support. I would also like to thank Simon Tudhope, Jane and Jessica Chisholm, Tom Dickins, Nick de Somogyi and Olga Bakeeva for their help.
Thanks too to Jenny and Josie Dowswell, and Dilys Dowswell, for their support and advice.
And finally . . . Bill Ryan, who I met through the Historical Writers Association, showed extraordinary generosity by lending me many rare books, and a couple of invaluable tourist guides, including one from 1937, which were a great inspiration.
Special thanks are due to Tatyana and Valeri Mescheryakova, who showed me the greatest kindness when I visited Moscow to research this book. The six days I spent in the Russian capital were among the most memorable of my life. Tatyana also told me the story about her great-grandfather, who was signals officer on the Battleship Potemkin, and I’m grateful to her for allowing me to incorporate this into the plot.
Also by Paul Dowswell
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Eleven Eleven
Sektion 20
The Cabinet of Curiosities
***
The Adventures of Sam Witchall
Powder Monkey
Prison Ship
Battle Fleet
Pick up the next incredible thriller from Paul Dowswell . . .
CHAPTER 1
Warsaw
August 2, 1941
Piotr Bruck shivered in the cold as he waited with twenty or so other naked boys in the long draughty corridor. He carried his clothes in an untidy bundle and hugged them close to his chest to try to keep warm. The late summer day was overcast and the rain had not let up since daybreak. He could see the goose pimples on the scrawny shoulder of the boy in front. That boy was shivering too, maybe from cold, maybe from fear. Two men in starched white coats sat at a table at the front of the line. They were giving each boy a cursory examination with strange-looking instruments. Some boys were sent to the room at the left of the table. Others were curtly dismissed to the room at the right.
Piotr and the other boys had been ordered to be silent and not look around. He willed his eyes to stay firmly fixed forward. So strong was Piotr’s fear, he felt almost detached from his body. Every movement he made seemed unnatural, forced. The only thing keeping him in the here and now was a desperate ache in his bladder. Piotr knew there was no point asking for permission to use the lavatory. When the soldiers had descended on the orphanage to hustle the boys from their beds and into a waiting van, he had asked to go. But he got a sharp cuff round the ear for talking out of turn.
The soldiers had first come to the orphanage two weeks ago. They had been back several times since. Sometimes they took boys, sometimes girls. Some of the boys in Piotr’s overcrowded dormitory had been glad to see them go: ‘More food for us, more room too, what’s the problem?’ said one. Only a few of the children came back. Those willing to tell what had happened had muttered something about being photographed and measured.
Now, just ahead in the corridor, Piotr could see several soldiers in black uniforms. The sort with lightning insignia on the collars. Some had dogs – fierce Alsatians who strained restlessly at their chain leashes. He had seen men like this before. They had come to his village during the fighting. He had seen first-hand what they were capable of.
There was another man watching them. He wore the same lightning insignia as the soldiers, but his was bold and large on the breast pocket of his white coat. He stood close to Piotr, tall and commanding, arms held behind his back, overseeing this mysterious procedure. When he turned around, Piotr noticed he carried a short leather riding whip. The man’s dark hair flopped lankly over the top of his head, but it was shaved at the sides, in the German style, a good seven or eight centimetres above the ears.
Observing the boys through black-rimmed spectacles he would nod or shake his head as his eyes passed along the line. Most of the boys, Piotr noticed, were blond like him, although a few had darker hair.
The man had the self-assured air of a doctor, but what he reminded Piotr of most was a farmer, examining his pigs and wondering which would fetch the best price at the village market. He caught Piotr staring and tutted impatiently through tight, thin lips, signalling for him to look to the front with a brisk, semicircular motion of his index finger.
Now Piotr was only three rows from the table, and could hear snippets of the conversation between the two men there. ‘Why was this one br
ought in?’ Then louder to the boy before him. ‘To the right, quick, before you feel my boot up your arse.’
Piotr edged forward. He could see the room to the right led directly to another corridor and an open door that led outside. No wonder there was such a draught. Beyond was a covered wagon where he glimpsed sullen young faces and guards with bayonets on their rifles. He felt another sharp slap to the back of his head. ‘Eyes forward!’ yelled a soldier. Piotr thought he was going to wet himself, he was so terrified.
On the table was a large box file. Stencilled on it in bold black letters were the words:
RACE AND SETTLEMENT MAIN OFFICE
Now Piotr was at the front of the queue praying hard not to be sent to the room on the right. One of the men in the starched white coats was looking directly at him. He smiled and turned to his companion who was reaching for a strange device that reminded Piotr of a pair of spindly pincers. There were several of these on the table. They looked like sinister medical instruments, but their purpose was not to extend or hold open human orifices or surgical incisions. These pincers had centimetre measurements indented along their polished steel edges.
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