OTHER TITLES BY RAY KINGFISHER:
Historical Fiction
The Sugar Men
Rosa’s Gold
General Fiction
Matchbox Memories
Tales of Loss and Guilt
Writing as Rachel Quinn
An Ocean Between Us
Writing as Ray Backley
Bad and Badder
Slow Burning Lies
Writing as Ray Fripp
I, Smith (with Harry Dewulf)
Easy Money
E.T. the Extra Tortilla
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © Ray Kingfisher 2019
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542041768 (hardcover)
ISBN-10: 1542041767 (hardcover)
ISBN-13: 9781612189345 (paperback)
ISBN-10: 1612189342 (paperback)
Cover design by Ghost Design
To Maria
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Prologue
Hartmann Way, Pittsburgh, July 2001
Diane Peterson was returning home after a great night out with Brad. Well, perhaps more average than great. Enjoyable, but about as good as it ever got for a middle-aged woman who still lived with her father, and for whom the phrase “boyfriend and girlfriend” was stretched to the limit and should have snapped a long time ago. Like a lot of things.
Nevertheless, she had enjoyed the evening: bowling followed by a meal with Em’n’Dave, who for once didn’t mention their upcoming fifteenth wedding anniversary and didn’t yammer on endlessly about how well their two kids were doing. That was good. For both Diane and Brad. Kids—and probably marriage too—were ships that had long since drifted over the horizon for them.
She pulled her keys from her purse and opened the front door of number 38 before turning to wave goodnight to Brad, who returned the gesture discreetly from the cab window.
She waited until the cab’s brake lights told her it had reached the end of Hartmann Way before stepping inside the front door and shutting out the rest of the world.
“Dad?” she shouted. Not aggressively or even stridently. She’d been told off for that thirty years ago and had never forgotten. He’d said something about harsh shouting unnerving him, which had puzzled her at the time, and still did just a little. But she knew not to question.
But her call was greeted with silence, so for once perhaps a measured increase in volume was appropriate.
“Dad?”
Still nothing. Nothing but cool air.
“You upstairs?” she hollered, now fearful of both a sore reaction and no reaction at all.
A step to the side. A strange, almost metallic smell. Stickiness at the back of her throat. Three paces forward. A glance into the kitchen. And then she saw.
Her keys and purse dropped from her limp hands onto the floor. She nearly followed, summoning up just enough energy to stop her knees buckling.
There was something she should be doing.
The phone.
A call.
Her face felt hot, her breath unnaturally cold.
The number 911 flew into her head and straight out again, as she turned and staggered back to the door. She opened it, and then her knees gave out. No energy. No control. A scrabble to her feet. A stumble into the road. The rest was blurred. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.
Chapter 1
Dyovsta, Ukraine, 1923
The two boys were born within days of each other on the same farm, during a warm and dusty June week.
Like any farm in the breadbasket of the burgeoning Soviet Empire, it had a big responsibility to its citizens. A crop failure some years before had caused widespread famine, so work took priority and the boys’ papas didn’t see much of them in the days and weeks that followed their births.
One of the boys, the firstborn of Mr. and Mrs. Petrenko, was given the name Mykhail, a traditional Ukrainian name. The other was the third born in his family, but the first boy. His parents had prayed for a boy—someone to manage the farm when Mr. Kogan got old—so they called him Asher, a traditional Jewish name meaning “blessed,” because they felt they were, and he should be.
Asher’s family had owned and operated the farm for decades, living through the First World War, the Russian Revolution, the Polish-Ukrainian War, and even the Ukrainian Civil War. That was a lot to survive, but as the farm was nestled deep in the rural heart of the country, most of it seemed to pass them by. The only remnant of those days the boys got to know about was that Mykhail’s parents had fled the more troublesome areas three or four years before, and had been taken in by Asher’s family. In return for much-needed labor, Mykhail’s parents were given the smaller of two farmhouses on the land and a share of the produce—eggs, grain, milk, chickens, and occasionally some goat meat.
In the first seven years of their lives, Mykhail and Asher became inseparable—closer than brothers. Of course, there were chores—gathering hay for the horses, mucking them out, feeding leftovers to the chickens, fetching water from the well. But they also found time to play together, to fish in one of the many rivers threading through the terrain, and, yes, occasionally to fight each other. They played with children from the surrounding farms too, often games of hide-and-seek in the woods and long grasses, but they always remained each other’s best friend. And when the weather kept them indoors, they were also taught to read and write together.
One day, when climbing one of the few trees around the farm, Mykhail fell and was unconscious for a few seconds. Asher helped him home, but the large vertical gash and subsequent scar just below his left eye would be a lasting reminder of the dangers of climbing trees. At least, that was what Asher’s papa told them. Mykhail’s papa didn’t seem so worried, and the boys still climbed trees occasionally.
But during the 1930s many changes took place—changes that the boys weren’t old enough to understand. All they knew was that they went hungry more often, and that they were forever being encouraged to go fishing.
One typical summer’s day in 1932, the boys took a leather bottle full of fresh mi
lk and a small bag of pumpkin seeds, and headed out for what they knew to be the best river for fishing.
The walk seemed longer than usual, and the crops sparser and unhealthier. They’d both heard their parents talking about “the situation,” but whenever they asked what this situation was they were shown a forced smile and told it was nothing for them to worry about.
So they didn’t worry.
On this trip, they each had three rods to keep an eye on, but the fish were less inclined to bite than usual, and after an hour they’d caught nothing. Mykhail left his fishing rods to fate and flopped onto his back, soaking up the sun’s rays. Then Asher did the same.
“My papa says it’s the Russians’ fault,” Mykhail said.
“What is?”
“The situation. The hunger. Papa says the Russians are trying to starve us all.”
“Why would they do that?”
“I don’t know. He says they hate Ukrainians. He also says . . .”
“Says what?”
“He says the Jews don’t help.”
Asher frowned. “What does he mean by that?”
“Oh, not you. Not the Kogans. I’m sure he’s talking about the other ones—the bad ones.”
“Good. Because I can’t remember doing anything wrong. Except I don’t let my sisters tell me what to do. And anyway, we’re Jewish and Ukrainian.”
“Of course. Perhaps I didn’t hear him properly. I don’t think I was supposed to be listening.”
Asher nodded. “I hear my papa talking sometimes too. He says these lands have been chopped up so many times that most Ukrainians don’t know who they should be fighting, so they usually end up fighting each other.”
“Perhaps we shouldn’t talk about it,” Mykhail said. “It doesn’t matter.”
Something caught Asher’s eye: one of the lines twitching violently. “Fish matter,” he said, tapping Mykhail.
Mykhail lifted his head, noticed the bite, and grabbed his rod. “You’re right,” he said. “And we’ve just caught one.”
The fishing carried on with mixed success for the rest of that summer, and whenever they fished together the two boys spoke of what food they’d eaten recently, what tricks Asher’s sisters had played on him, even the weather—anything apart from “the situation.”
By the summer of 1933, however, “the situation” had clearly become more serious. A heavy atmosphere clung on to the whole farm like a curse, and the boys’ parents were having a lot more whispered conversations.
The boys had been attending school for a few years, but still managed to make time for fishing trips. Their parents had always encouraged the trips, but now they were being told to go, and to stay longer, and to bring back more fish. At least, they were told that by their papas; their mamas usually said nothing.
And most of the time there were no seeds or bottles of milk to take with them on their fishing trips.
On one occasion, Mykhail’s mama was sweeping the dust from the kitchen as he was preparing to leave.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I’ve nothing for you to take. We’re just so short of food.”
Mykhail knew; he’d heard it many times before. “Yes, Mama,” he said, much as he had all year.
“Things will get better, have a little faith. But for now you’ll have to drink river water instead of milk, and make sure you bring back anything you catch.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Even the small fish. Don’t throw anything back in, will you?”
“No, Mama.”
Then Mykhail saw that worried frown on his mama’s face again—the one he’d seen more often lately. She laid down the broom, drew the back of her hand across her brow, and rushed over to him so quickly he was frightened for a moment.
“And please God, take care of yourself,” she said, and kissed him on the head.
Mykhail, slightly confused, left the farmhouse and crossed the yard to his friend’s farmhouse.
“He’s in the barn,” Asher’s mama said as she pummeled the dirty water out of a soaking-wet shirt. “Helping his papa sort out the seeds.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Kogan.”
In the barn, Asher and his papa were sitting on the ground, sifting through the seeds, discarding the rotten ones. Mykhail’s papa was there too, grooming the two horses. As Mykhail entered, his papa glanced at him, but held a blank expression and turned away.
“Are you coming fishing?” Mykhail said to Asher.
Asher looked over to his papa, who nodded. The boy stood up, wiped the dust from his hands, and headed for the door.
“They were arguing again,” Asher said when they were well away from the barn.
“What about?”
Asher shrugged. “I don’t know. But your papa is a nice man.”
“Yours too.”
“So why do they argue so much?”
“They don’t agree about the Russians,” Mykhail said. “I don’t know what it means, all this talk of the state and food production. They said the authorities take what food they want and don’t provide enough seed.”
“What’s that got to do with the Russians?”
“I don’t know, but they say that’s why everyone’s hungry.”
The fishing hadn’t been good recently, so the boys walked upstream, to somewhere they’d never fished before. They found a calm, deep section of water their lines could reach, and sat down on the riverbank facing the sun.
Their rods were the usual long sticks with string tied onto the ends; their floats were rough chunks of wood. They found grubs to impale on the bent nails tied to the ends of the string, then tossed the lines into the river and settled back.
“Is your papa angry?” Mykhail said after a few minutes’ silence.
Asher shook his head. “Not angry. Just very serious. As if I’ve done something wrong.”
“My papa shouts a lot about seeds and crops and things, usually when he’s complaining about the Russians.”
“My papa says we should be grateful, that many people are dying in the towns and cities.”
Mykhail shook his head. “My papa says we should fight the Russians, that they’re deliberately destroying our country and our people. He says we’re Ukrainians and will never be Russians.”
Asher said nothing to that, and the boys turned their attentions back to fishing, watching the slow-drifting river, flinching every time a rod twitched.
A lot of time passed by—perhaps three hours, judging by the movement of the sun. And they were good hours by recent standards: seven fish were now wrapped up in one of Asher’s threadbare old shirts.
“Shall we go?” Asher said, getting to his feet. “I’m so hungry.”
Mykhail shook his head. “We need another fish. One for each person. Papa will be upset if we go home with less.” He showed Asher a serious frown. “That’s only fair.”
Asher sat down again.
A few minutes later, they saw figures approaching from the direction of the sun, and then heard voices breaking through the burbling of the river.
They exchanged glances.
Their parents had told them to be careful—and not just today. People were desperate in these times.
“We should go,” Asher said.
Mykhail grabbed the rods, leaving Asher to pick up the shirt and the fish wrapped inside it. They turned and started walking.
“Not too fast,” Mykhail said. “And don’t keep looking behind.”
They walked on casually, and a few minutes later heard a shout from behind: “Hey you!”
“Ignore it,” Mykhail said.
They quickened their pace despite Mykhail’s words.
“Hey! You two boys!”
Mykhail cursed and turned back; Asher too.
There were three of them—all grown men, all bony and sunken-chested, one much older than the other two. They must have been walking quickly to have gotten so close.
“Do we run?” Asher whispered to Mykhail.
Mykhail squinted at th
e men, then turned to Asher. “We could outrun the old one, but . . .”
Asher gulped. “They might just be lost, wanting directions.”
“Yes. That’s probably it.”
They waited while the men sauntered over to them. Asher hid his hands—and the day’s catch—behind him.
“How long have you been fishing?” the biggest man asked.
“Not long,” Mykhail said. “They aren’t biting today.”
“You didn’t catch anything?”
Mykhail shook his head.
The man stepped toward Asher. It was man to boy, but nevertheless the man stretched himself up to his full height. “You,” he said, his lips smiling but his eyes too focused to join in. “What have you got behind your back?”
“Just my shirt.”
“Let me see.”
“No!” Mykhail shouted, pulling Asher away. “Go away. Catch your own fish.”
The man laughed, then turned to the other two men, who grinned like cats. He looked directly at Asher again, then stopped laughing, his face suddenly taking on a grim appearance. “Come on.” He fluttered an upturned hand toward the boy. “Let me see.”
Asher shook his head.
The man took a step closer. Asher stood firm, but saw a flash, heard a crack, then his world spun around and his head thumped the earth. He felt grainy dirt on his face and smelled blood. He turned and looked up to see the man wiping the blood from the back of his hand. Then he saw a blur, and after that, nothing.
As the man bent down to pick up the shirt, Mykhail took a run and barged into him.
The man stumbled, but still picked up the shirt, glancing at the fish inside.
Mykhail tried again, but the man held him at bay with his free hand and shoved him down onto the ground. “And stay there, you little scarface,” he said. “Or I’ll knock you out too.”
Mykhail stayed.
“Good catch,” the man shouted back to his friends. He gathered the corners of the bundle up so no fish would fall out, then joined them. They left, walking away slowly with an occasional glance back at the boys.
Mykhail sneered as he watched them leave, then scurried over and knelt down next to his friend.
Asher was motionless, the lower half of his face now encrusted with dirt turned red.
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