Dan Smith - Red Winter

‘Maybe we should let them move on,’ he said. ‘We can’t spare any—’

‘Don’t be such a miser,’ she told him. ‘Bring them in, bring them in.’ She stepped back and beckoned with gnarled hands.

Sergei rolled his eyes and grumbled.

‘We should move on,’ Lyudmila said under her breath, and I knew why she said it. We weren’t welcome here – the old man made that clear enough – and his wife reminded me too much of Galina and the skazka witches. But it was getting colder by the minute and I had to think about Anna. She needed warmth, food and a good night’s sleep.

‘Look,’ I said, taking the piece of salo from my satchel and showing it to him as I unwrapped it. ‘We can share what we have.’

‘They have food?’ the old woman said. ‘Even better. What are you waiting for? Bring them in.’

The old man studied the piece of salo , small as it was, moving his mouth as though he were eating the greasy fat already. He came down the step, making Tanya move out of his way, and he reached out to take my arm and bring the salo closer. He looked it over, then leaned in to smell it.

When he had done that, he released me and fixed his eyes on mine. ‘Red, White, I don’t care who you are. Are you an honest man?’ he asked. ‘That’s what matters.’

‘Yes.’

‘A man of your word?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you give me your word you mean no harm here?’

‘I swear it.’

He thought for a moment before taking a deep breath and holding out his hand, but he didn’t look me in the eye as Lev had done when he offered me his olive branch. His was not a warm greeting, as Lev’s had been, and I felt my friend’s absence with some pain.

I removed my glove and took the old man’s hand in mine, feeling the coarseness of his skin. His fingers were strong, his grip tight, despite his age. And in that moment I felt pity for him. Winter was close, and the war had brought food shortages. The old were vulnerable and exposed. Many would not see the spring.

‘There’s hay in the barn for your horses,’ he said, ‘and the dog stays outside. Bring some logs with you when you come in. We light the oven at night.’

The old man stood by the pich , pointing to the place where he expected us to pile the logs. The izba still held the remnants of warmth from last night’s fire, the pich having kept its heat well. A good oven was always the heart of any home, and a good pichniki was one of the most valuable tradesmen. It took great skill to build a stove with enough passages to channel the smoke and hot air through the bricks to build a good heat. If the old man only lit his oven at night, then the pichniki had done a good job – the bricks still gave off enough heat to make it warmer inside than it was outside. The iron door was open to reveal an oven large enough to keep even Baba Yaga or One-Eyed Likho happy – either witch could accommodate a whole adult in there, if need be.

The pich was well placed in the room, and there was a good space between its top and the ceiling above it. The corner of a blanket hanging down gave the impression that more were bundled on top of it, and I knew it would be a warm place to sleep.

‘You have a good pich ,’ I said, piling dry birch logs on the floor beside it. I couldn’t stop myself from leaning to one side to inspect the interior of the oven, as if to reassure myself there weren’t any children roasting in its coals. When I saw it was empty, I told myself to stop being so foolish. I’d listened to so many skazkas they were starting to affect me the way they were supposed to frighten the children.

I turned to see the old man watching me. His black hair was streaked with grey, bushy around his ears but thinning on top, and his face was almost covered by a thick beard. His eyes were hooded with heavy lids beneath unruly eyebrows, and his nose was bent at an odd angle as if it had once been broken. His clothes looked clean and in half-decent repair.

‘The pichniki must have been very skilled,’ I said.

The old man grunted and spat into the open oven, the gob of saliva arcing into last night’s ashes. It was a gesture used to ward off bad luck if a compliment is given.

‘He built it himself,’ the old woman said from the far corner of the room, ‘though he doesn’t like to admit it.’

We gathered more logs from the pile outside and returned to the izba , Tanya and Lyudmila entering first. Tuzik tried to follow Anna and me up the step, but I pushed him away with my leg, trying to be gentle.

‘He would enjoy the pich ,’ I said to Anna, ‘but we have to honour the old man’s request.’

‘Why won’t they let him come in?’ she whispered.

‘Maybe they’re scared of dogs.’

‘He’s not as scary as they are. That woman is so ugly.’

‘Sh.’ I put a finger to my lips. ‘She’s just old. Tuzik doesn’t seem bothered anyway,’ I said. ‘Look at him – he doesn’t care.’

‘Because he can see how scary she is. She looks like a witch.’

I couldn’t help smiling. ‘I think he wants to stand guard. Maybe even go hunting.’ I put the logs inside the door and squatted to let Tuzik bury his head into my armpit. ‘Guard us well, my friend,’ I told him, as I rubbed his back. ‘I’ll bring you something to eat later, I promise.’

Tuzik moved back into the yard and watched us go into the house, but he made no more attempt to follow.

‘I don’t blame him,’ Anna said. ‘This place is creepy.’

We dumped the logs on the pile, and the old woman stepped out of the shadow as if she’d been lying in wait for us. She came to the table, put a candle in a holder and lit it with a match before putting a glass storm shield round it. The flame flickered for a moment and then grew, lighting the surface of the table and the chairs round it.

The old woman was stooped a little, bent at the waist, and hunched; thin and bony beneath her black dress and woollen shawl. She wore a tight black headscarf to match the dress, and it covered her hair, making it look as if she might be bald beneath it. All I could see were her wrinkled forehead, her watery eyes and veined nose. She had soft shoes on her feet, and when she shuffled over to greet us, her hag-like manner made my skin crawl.

‘Pretty girl,’ she said, reaching out to pinch Anna’s cheek between her hardened thumb and the gnarled knuckle of her first finger.

She smiled, revealing more gum than tooth, and I felt Anna recoil.

The old woman’s breath was rancid, like sour milk. She was as repellent to my eyes as she was to Anna’s and I kept thinking of Galina with her putrid eye and her unsettling insanity. And the way she touched Anna, it was as if she was testing her tenderness, sizing her up for the pot.

I had to laugh at myself and try to dismiss my unease.

‘Very pretty,’ she repeated, nodding to herself, and the tip of her tongue slipped out to wet her lips. ‘Her name?’

‘Anna.’ I introduced all of us, giving them our first names, but the old woman only had eyes for Anna right now.

‘Your daughter?’ she asked.

‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘In a manner of speaking?’ She craned her neck to stare at me. ‘Either she is or she isn’t. Which one is it, my dear?’

‘She is now,’ I said.

‘An orphan of the war?’

‘I’m right here, you know.’ Anna pulled away from her.

‘She doesn’t like to be reminded,’ I said.

‘Hmm.’ The old woman peered at Anna. ‘Well… sit, sit. Let me see what else you’ve brought us.’

While Sergei lit the pich , the rest of us sat at the table and spread our supplies across its surface. We had left most of our belongings in our saddlebags in the outbuilding, which was just as well because the old woman had hungry eyes and a hungrier stomach. By the time we had unpacked what we’d brought in with us, there was the piece of salo , some strips of dried meat, three chunks of sausage and a slab of kovbyk . Lyudmila had been reluctant to hand it over, but the old woman hadn’t given us much choice. She had taken our satchels and rummaged through them, pushing the ammunition to one side and handing us the knives to hold while she searched for food. It was bad luck to leave a knife on the table and these were superstitious country people.