by Smith, Dan
‘Yes,’ I said, running my hand across her brow, moving aside the blood-matted hair. ‘Yes, he did.’
‘You can find your family.’
‘We’ll find them together.’
She lifted her fingers to my face, touching my cheek, and our eyes locked together. ‘Find them,’ she said.
They were her last words.
I sat back, turning my face to the sky and closing my eyes, but allowed myself only a moment. Other things were more important. The living had to take precedent over the dead.
I left Tanya where she lay and went to Anna.
The old woman was still outside when dawn broke. She remained at her dead son’s side, stricken despite his crimes, and the day renewed about her, unmoved by the night’s tragedy.
No more snow fell, and that which had settled became a crystalline crust that hardened on the frost and decorated everything from the frozen mud in the yard to the narrow fence tops and the field beyond. The morning light glittered in the countless angles of the flowering ice with an incongruous beauty.
Dragging the bodies from the house was hard work, but had to be done. I couldn’t leave them where they had fallen; Sergei and the old woman wouldn’t be able to move them, nor would Oksana, and I couldn’t leave them in the izba with the children.
With a frankness that saddened me, Anna offered to help, but I couldn’t allow it. If anything ever taught me that our country was hard on people, it was that a twelve-year-old girl could offer to help drag dead men from a family home. She needed to do something, though, so I pointed to the horses, who shied away from the ugly tableau, huddling at the far end of the yard, and I told her to take them back into the barn to shelter. There was hay and warmth for them there.
‘You look bad,’ she said. ‘Does it hurt?’
‘I’ll live. Go on. Take the horses inside.’
She went without question, ignoring the old woman and going to Kashtan first.
Tuzik divided his time between us, patrolling from one to the other.
‘You’re a Bolshevik.’ They were Sergei’s first words.
I was by the door, the night behind me, bent over the corpse of one of the Chekists as I struggled to pull him outside. I looked up to see the old man watching me. His beard was thick over pallid skin, and his red eyes were watery and sad.
‘What does it matter?’ I asked.
‘Were these men your brothers?’
I glanced at the body of the man who had tried to strangle me. He was stiffening now, the side of his neck plastered with drying blood. ‘These men passed beyond being anyone’s brother. They weren’t Bolsheviks. They were. . .’ I shook my head and looked for the right word, but I wasn’t sure what it was. ‘They weren’t Bolsheviks.’
‘What does that mean, anyway?’ he asked. ‘Perhaps it means something to the men in Moscow, but here?’
I didn’t reply.
‘Perhaps we’ve just forgotten what we’re fighting for.’
I stared at the old man and wondered what he must be feeling. His own son was a monster.
‘So what are you fighting for?’ he asked me.
‘Then? For the revolution. But now for my family.’ I remembered what Commander Orlov had said to me. ‘Nothing else matters now.’
The old man looked over at his wife mourning their son and I understood the irony of what I had just said. I could not tell him I was sorry, though. My only regret was that Ryzhkov had died before I could learn what he had done with Marianna and Misha and Pavel.
Sergei sighed, and his eyes shifted so he could see beyond the yard. He watched the sparkle of the rising sun on the field and I knew our conversation was over. He reached into his pocket to take out his pipe, and when he began to pack it with tobacco, I continued with the task at hand, dragging the body the short distance to the cart, moving it just a few paces at a time before I had to rest, and then struggling to load it on with the others.
The old woman paid me no attention, sitting beside her son with her head hung. The air was bitter and yet she hardly seemed to notice.
Taking the coat from the Chekist’s body, I draped it over her shoulders and drew it around her.
‘Stay warm, grandmother,’ I said. ‘Enough people have died here already.’ She didn’t even acknowledge I was there.
By the time I finished loading the cart, Anna had stabled the horses and remained in the barn, petting Kashtan, but she didn’t take her eyes off me. Tuzik lay in the straw by the door, head up, watching.
I went back to the old woman, touching her shoulder.
‘Time to go inside,’ I said. I had one more body to deal with, but to her, I wasn’t even there. She didn’t move, didn’t even acknowledge my presence. Nothing existed but her and her son’s body, and I think she might have stayed there until she wasted to nothing or froze in place if it hadn’t been for her husband.
The old man came out and crossed the yard, boots crunching on the ice. He reached down and took his wife’s hand in his own, then put another under her arm to help her to her feet. Now she complied as if in a daze, and the vagueness of her expression reminded me of what I had seen in Galina’s face when I had been in Belev.
‘He’s gone,’ Sergei said as she stood. ‘He’s gone now.’ He turned her round and guided her back to the house.
When they had left, I went to their son’s body and took the papers from his pocket. I checked the uniform beneath his coat and kept anything that might be of use, then I hauled him onto the back of the cart with the others, taking my time and resting often.
Piling the men like that had been a great effort and had taken me over an hour. My muscles protested, my back screamed in pain so I could hardly stand straight, and my face throbbed, but I had to keep going. I wanted to finish, so I gathered an armful of split logs from the woodpile and went to the cart, packing them around the bodies. I would not allow these men to have anything. Not even six feet of land. I would burn them and let them scatter to the wind.
When I returned for more wood, Anna was waiting for me.
‘Let me help,’ she said.
I considered for a moment, then reached out to put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Aren’t you cold? It’s warmer in the barn with Kashtan.’
Anna responded by turning to the woodpile and grasping a log in each hand. ‘This will keep me warm.’ She offered them to me.
I took the wood from her, seeing that she wanted to be with me, and I smiled at her. It was not a smile of happiness, but one of understanding and togetherness.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
So Anna lifted the wood from the pile and I took it to the cart, and when there was enough, I covered the bodies with dry straw from the barn.
With that done, Anna and I returned to Kashtan, who nickered and came to me, putting her nose against my chest. I looked into her soft brown eyes and rubbed her neck.
‘Stay with her,’ I said to Anna. ‘There’s one last thing for me to do.’
‘What is it? Can’t I come with you?’ she asked.
‘I need you to keep Kashtan company. Don’t worry. You’re safe.’
‘I don’t feel safe.’
‘I know.’ I turned to Anna and opened my arms to her and she stepped against me. I embraced her and held her tight, putting up a hand to stroke her hair. ‘But I have to bring Tanya and Lyudmila out.’
‘I don’t want to be alone.’ Her face was pressed against my coat and her voice was muffled.
‘You won’t be. I’ll be close. And Kashtan is here. Tuzik too.’
Inside, the old woman was sitting at the table, and Sergei had put water on to boil. He made tea while I took Tanya and Lyudmila into the yard, but I didn’t put them in the cart with the Chekists. They deserved better than that. They deserved the land, so I laid them on my tarpaulin, one at a time, and wrapped it round them before I returned to the barn to collect some tools.
‘I’m going to take them to the edge of the forest,’ I told Anna. ‘To bury them. It may take
a little while.’ I glanced over at the izba. There was a glow at the window and it would be warm inside.
Anna saw me looking and began to shake her head. ‘Don’t leave me.’ There was desperation in her voice. ‘Please don’t make me go—’
‘I want you to come with me,’ I said, removing one glove and putting my hand to the side of her face. ‘I won’t let you out of my sight.’ It was the only choice I had. I couldn’t leave her out here in the barn, and though it would be warm in the house, I couldn’t send her inside to be alone with the old woman, the mother of the man she had helped kill.
Anna’s relief was clear. Her shoulders slumped and she closed her eyes, releasing her breath.
‘Come on,’ I said, putting my glove back on. ‘You can bring the tools.’
I gave her an axe and a shovel from the back of the barn and we went to the wrapped tarpaulin at the far end of the yard. I took the end in both hands and walked backwards, dragging it through the gate, to the edge of the trees.
Anna walked beside me while Tuzik followed, and when I broke the ground with the axe and dug a shallow grave, they watched in silence, Tuzik sitting motionless, Anna standing beside him with one hand on his head.
As I dug, I remembered how I done the same thing for my brother not long ago. I had broken the ground as the sleet came down, and the two women had watched from shelter. It occurred to me that I knew so very little about them.
When the grave was deep enough, I checked their pockets, removing all papers and belongings and putting them in my satchel. Then I rolled them into the hole to lie side by side under the trees. They looked small and insignificant like that, as if they didn’t matter. I wondered who would miss them or if they’d even know they were gone.
The cold, black, rich soil was like heavy rain on their clothes as I shovelled it onto them, and when all I could see were their dead, white faces, I paused. I closed my eyes and touched the chotki round my wrist. I said a small prayer and wished them luck wherever they were going, then I threw the last of the soil over them and they were gone.
42
When we returned to the house, Oksana and her children were at the rear of the izba. Sergei and the old woman were at the table.
I stopped in the doorway, Anna beside me. Tuzik pushed past, coming into the warmth, and grunted as he lay down. He kept his head up and opened his mouth. The sound of his breathing filled the room.
I scanned the izba, my eyes meeting Oksana’s, but Sergei and the old woman kept their heads bowed.
‘We’ll take some of your food,’ I said, going to the cupboard, ‘but not everything.’
I gathered some pickles, bread, sausage, kovbyk and a hessian bag filled with sunflower seeds. I stuffed what I could into my pockets and handed down supplies for Anna to carry.
‘What will you do now?’ Oksana’s voice was quiet and husky, but it took us all by surprise.
I stopped with my hand still in the cupboard and turned to look at her. Tuzik was on his feet immediately. Anna inched closer to me.
‘Just leave?’ Oksana asked.
‘Yes.’
‘And do what?’
‘Look for my wife and sons.’ It wasn’t Oksana’s fault. She had not been responsible for her husband’s madness, had even tried to warn us, but I couldn’t hide the animosity in my voice. She was connected to him and he was no longer here to accept my anger.
‘What about Anna?’ She looked at the girl, who now moved so she was partly behind me. ‘What will happen to her?’
‘She’ll come with me.’ I took my arm from the cupboard and put it down to shield Anna.
Oksana took two hesitant steps towards us and stopped. She ran her hands down her apron. ‘With you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Winter is almost here. How long do you think it will—’
‘As long as it takes.’
She clasped her hands together, a troubled look on her face. ‘It’s no place for a young girl, out there in the cold with a man like you.’
‘A man like me?’
‘At least let her stay here for now. Come back when you’ve—’
‘She’s coming with me,’ I said.
‘But we can feed her, keep her warm. It’ll be so cold soon; the snow has already started. You have to let her stay.’
‘Do I?’
‘She’s just a child.’
‘She’s stronger than you think, and she knows her own mind.’ I looked at Anna. ‘What do you want to do?’ I asked her.
‘You were his wife,’ Anna said, looking at Oksana. ‘And she was his mama.’ She pointed at the old woman without taking her eyes off Oksana. ‘I’m not staying here. Not with you. I don’t want anything from you. I want to be with Kolya.’
Oksana lowered her head and tightened her mouth and nodded once. She didn’t speak again. She went back to her own children as we finished gathering what we needed.
Anna and I took a fair amount of what we found, leaving Oksana and her family enough to survive. Then we left the izba, with Tuzik following on our heels.
We went to the barn, and I lit a lamp and eased down to sit on a pile of straw and lean against the wall. My whole body ached and it was good to take the weight off my feet. I wanted to put my head back and close my eyes, but didn’t dare, in case I fell asleep.
Anna sat beside me, stretching out her legs, and Tuzik came to lie along the side of them. Kashtan and the other two horses watched us as they chewed the hay Anna had put out for them earlier.
‘How are you feeling?’ I asked her.
‘I’m all right.
‘You sure? What you did—’
‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘Doesn’t it hurt?’
‘Don’t worry about me.’ I put a hand to my nose, feeling the dried blood and realising what a mess I was. ‘It probably looks worse than it is.’ When I ran my tongue round my mouth, I felt the jagged edge of a broken tooth. ‘But maybe we should talk about what hap—’
‘I don’t want to talk about that,’ she said. ‘Not now.’ There was almost no expression in her voice. ‘I was thinking there might be clues at the other farm,’ she said. ‘Where the soldiers were. There might be something there to tell you where they took your wife.’
I was taken aback. I had expected something else. A different reaction. This must be her way of putting it behind her, pretending it hadn’t happened. Sooner or later, though, she would have to talk about it. She couldn’t keep a thing like this inside her.
‘Is it not a good idea?’ She stared ahead and put out a hand to scratch Tuzik behind the ear.
‘Yes. It is.’ Then I thought about what we might find at the other farm. There wouldn’t be more soldiers – I was certain that if there had been, they would have heard the shooting last night – but there might be something else. More bodies. The five-pointed brand Ryzhkov had used to mark his victims. The sword he had used to take their heads. This was not something I wanted Anna to see. She didn’t need any more of this; she needed a home; she needed someone to look after her.
‘We can take their equipment,’ Anna suggested. ‘It might help us.’
‘I don’t . . .’ I searched for the right words. ‘Do you . . . ?’
Anna continued to scratch Tuzik’s ear.
‘You don’t like Oksana,’ I said.
‘No.’
‘What about her children? Nikolai and Natasha?’
Anna shrugged.
I sighed. ‘What I’m trying to say is, maybe she was right. Don’t you think you might be better off without me?’
‘Without you?’ She turned to look at me, worry in her eyes. ‘Why? What do you mean?’
‘It’s dangerous what I’m doing, where I might have to go. It’s no life for you.’
‘Don’t you want me to come with you?’
‘It’s not that . . .’
‘You promised.’
‘I know, but don’t you think you’d be safer here? With Oksana?’
‘And the wit
ch?’ Anna glanced at the barn door as if she expected the old woman to come flying in like Baba Yaga.
‘I don’t think they’d hurt you. I think they’re—’
‘No. I want to go with you.’ She shook her head with short, tight movements. ‘I’m safer with you.’
‘I hoped you would say that.’
‘You can’t go without me. Wherever it is. I want to help you. Promise you won’t go without me. Promise.’
There was a desperation in her voice that I couldn’t ignore. ‘I promise,’ I said.
Anna’s relief was evident and I leaned over to kiss the top of her head. ‘We’ll find them together.’
‘When will we leave? We should go soon, shouldn’t we?’
‘Yes. Soon.’ I took off my satchel and put it on the ground between my outstretched legs. I opened it and removed the things I had taken from Tanya and Lyudmila’s pockets.
‘What’s that?’ Anna asked.
‘They never told me who they were,’ I said, staring at the papers, wondering if I wanted to look, if I wanted to know who they were. I didn’t know if it would change what I thought of them. ‘It doesn’t make any difference,’ I said under my breath.
‘What?’ Anna asked.
‘Nothing.’
Tanya’s belongings consisted of a tin containing only three cigarette papers and a pinch of tobacco. There was also a stripper clip of ammunition for her pistol, a folding knife, a small piece of cloth wrapped into a tiny bundle and tied with a piece of string, and her papers. The papers had been folded into a small rectangle and pushed to the bottom of her inside coat pocket and had been difficult to find. It seemed that she, unlike me, had been unable to part with them.
I placed the bundle of cloth on the ground and picked at the string to loosen it. I opened it out in front of me.
The glow from the lamp glinted on the matching pair of gold rings.
‘Wedding rings,’ I said, looking at Anna. ‘Expensive too. Real gold.’
I pinched one of the rings between my finger and thumb, holding it up to the light and turning it before placing it in Anna’s palm for her to see.