Dan Smith - The Child Thief

‘And what’s the picture?’ Lara turned the enamelled white cross, twisting the ribbon to see it better. The colourful representation in the centre of the medal was of a man sitting on the back of a white horse, driving a lance down into a dragon that cowered at the feet of his mount.

‘It’s St George,’ I said. ‘Killing a dragon.’

‘There’s an icon in the church,’ she said. ‘It looks like this but the horse is black.’

‘St George is one of the martyrs. He was a brave man who died for what he believed in.’

Lara turned the medal this way and that, seeing the way the light from the window caught on the colours.

‘But it means something else too, Lara. It’s not just a man killing a dragon. The icon reminds us of our struggle with ourselves. With the evil inside and around us.’

‘Luka.’

I looked at Natalia. ‘What?’

‘She doesn’t need to hear about that.’

‘It’s what the priest would tell her if he were here.’

‘Well he isn’t here.’ She turned to our daughter. ‘Take it off, Lara. It’s not for you to play with.’

‘Can’t I keep it?’

‘No.’

‘Just wear it then? Please, Mama, just for a—’

‘No.’

‘Let her wear it for a while,’ I said. ‘What harm is there?’

Natalia looked at me, deciding. When it came to Lara, it was Natalia’s decision that was final. She sighed and nodded.

‘Thank you, Mama.’ She hugged her mother. ‘Can I go and show Dariya?’

‘Not now,’ Natalia said. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

‘Tomorrow then?’

‘Maybe not tomorrow either.’

Lara’s demeanour changed, her shoulders dropping. She sulked and left the room, going into the bedroom to look at her prize; cherish it while she still had it.

I smiled as I watched her go. ‘She’s like you, Natalia. So much like you.’

Natalia shook her head and reached across the table to touch my hand. ‘Perhaps as I used to be.’

‘What about the tin?’ Petro asked. ‘Have you looked inside?’

‘Not yet.’ I contemplated the tarnished tin lying on the table. I touched it with the tips of my fingers and pushed it from side to side looking up at my wife.

‘Open it,’ Viktor said.

‘It feels wrong,’ I replied. ‘Rifling through his belongings.’

‘There might be something in there that tells us who he is,’ Petro said.

Or perhaps it would confirm something else: that this man was indeed a killer of children. That these things did not belong to him. That Dimitri and his mob had rightfully hanged him from the boughs of their tree.

I pinched the lid of the tin, pulled it open, and looked at a piece of paper inside. There was nothing on it but a date, written in slanted script. The date was eight years ago, 1922, after the end of the civil war, around the time I came home to be with my family for good. I knew straight away that I was looking at the back of a photograph. I owned none of my own, but I had seen others.

I took it out of the tin and placed it face up on the table to see the image of a young woman, seated, with two children. The woman was neither beautiful nor ugly. She was plain. In her arms she cradled a baby. A second child, maybe two years old and dressed as an adult, stood beside the chair.

I took the other photographs from the tin and put them on the table.

‘They might not be his,’ Natalia said.

I nodded and began to spread the photographs out. There were more pictures of the same woman – some alone and others with the two children. There were also single portraits of the children. There were as many as ten photographs, some creased as if they’d been kept in a pocket, or damaged as if something had been spilled on them before they had been placed in the tin for safe keeping.

I stopped and stared.

This photograph was small, no larger than a packet of cigarettes. It was not a good picture, but it was more recent than the others, not faded or damaged at all, and the faces of the people in the sepia tones were clear enough. It looked to have been taken in some sort of garden, for there was a tree out of focus in the background. There were two people seated. A patriarchal man, wearing a dark suit that contrasted with his heavy white beard and moustache. His left elbow was resting on a table covered with white lace. On the other side of the table, a woman, similar in age, wearing a heavy dress. Her head was covered with a light-coloured headscarf. Standing behind them, a younger couple. This woman was the one from the other photographs. She wore a plain black dress and her dark hair was drawn back on her head.

The man beside her had been in our home just a few hours ago. He stood straight, as if a plank of wood had been inserted into the back of his double-breasted jacket. The high white collar of his shirt was tight beneath his closely bearded chin. He looked fuller in the face, and far healthier than the man who was now buried in the cemetery behind our church, but there was no doubt it was the same man.

And on the floor, at the feet of the seated grandparents, two children. A boy and a girl, just a year or two between them. Their features were more developed than the children in the other photos, but I was certain they were the same two.

‘He was their father,’ I whispered.

Natalia took a deep breath. ‘We don’t know that, Luka. This doesn’t mean…’ Her words trailed away.

‘It’s enough for me,’ I said. ‘This man was no child-killer.’ I tapped my finger on the picture. ‘He was a soldier. A decorated officer. And he was a father. No father could do that to his own children.’

‘All you have is a photograph, Luka. You don’t know anything. He could be, I don’t know, an uncle.’

‘Look at the similarities,’ I said. ‘The man and woman in the photograph. These children have their features. They look like them. And they’re the same two we buried this morning. Look at them, Natalia. Dimitri and the others murdered an innocent man.’

I laid the picture down and said nothing more, understanding that she wanted there to be some doubt; she wanted there to be a chance the others had done the right thing.

I reached over and squeezed her hand, then returned the photographs to the tin, but even as I pushed the lid tight, I heard footsteps outside, heavy boots approaching the front door, followed by a rapid banging.

‘What now?’ Natalia started to stand, but I stopped her.

I took the revolver and went to the window, looking out to see Dimitri’s wife, Svetlana Ivanovna, standing on our doorstep.

‘The coward has sent your sister,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you should speak to her.’

‘What will I say?’

I drew the bolts and stepped back to let Natalia answer the door. ‘I don’t know; she’s your sister.’

I put the revolver behind my back, so as not to frighten Svetlana, and stood behind Natalia.

‘What is it, Sveta?’ Natalia asked when she opened the door.

‘Have you come to see who else you can drag from his house?’ I said. ‘Or have you come to express your shame? Your husband has sent you to hang your head for him?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘We can’t find Dariya.’

For a moment, no one spoke. In my mind, I saw the two children lying on the sled. I saw them in the bottom of a cold hole, waiting for the soil to be thrown over them.

‘When did you see her last?’ Natalia broke the spell.

‘This morning. Before…’ But Svetlana couldn’t say it. She didn’t even want to think about what she’d been a part of.

‘And you haven’t seen her since?’ Natalia asked.

‘You probably scared her away,’ I said. ‘Frightened the poor child with your hanging.’ I shook my head and turned my back. I went to the table and sat down with my sons.