Kate Furnivall - Under a Blood Red Sky

‘A tractor driver will be of great use to our kolkhoz next month when we start harvesting,’ he said thoughtfully.

‘I’m glad.’ She had no intention of still being in Tivil next month.

‘But everyone knows that a tractor driver can also inflict great damage to the crops if he or – more to the point – she chooses.’

‘Comrade Chairman, I am offering myself as a helper, not a wrecker.’

‘But it is significant that the moment you appear in Tivil, a barn burns down and sacks of grain go missing.’

Sofia’s pulse thudded in her throat. ‘It is a coincidence that someone else here is manipulating.’

‘Who?’

‘How do I know?’ she shrugged. ‘I’m new here.’

‘That is my point.’ He lifted the key and tapped it against the line of his jaw. ‘Come to the office at noon tomorrow. I’d like to ask you some questions.’

‘Chairman, I take exception to such a demand. I am here to give assistance to the kolkhoz of my uncle.’

His grey eyes caught her out. ‘In which case you won’t mind answering my questions, will you?’

‘Questions about what?’

‘About where you’ve come from. Who your parents were. About your family.’ He paused again and observed her closely as he added, ‘About your uncle.’

‘Uncle Rafik is not well.’

‘It’s interesting how often the gypsy is sick after the Procurement Officers have come calling in Tivil.’ He gave an ironic half-smile. ‘So often, in fact, that I’m beginning to wonder if there is a connection.’

‘I believe he grows sick at heart when he sees the village suffer.’

Fomenko didn’t like that, his mouth tightened. ‘He should be sick at heart at the thought of the men and women and children going hungry throughout our towns and cities. It is my job to make sure they don’t, by making this kolkhoz productive. We must help fulfil our Great Leader’s Plan.’

The pause he left demanded a patriotic response, but the words wouldn’t come to her tongue. Instead she held out her hand for the key.

The church was cool, hushed, as Sofia locked the door behind her. The sunlight slid through the windows in bright golden beams that captured the dust and strengthened the shadows. She breathed deeply, shocked to find she was shaking.

How could Fomenko have that effect on her, just by breathing the same air? She stared down at her palm and almost expected to see the imprint of his fingers there. But that was foolish, so she pushed it aside and looked around her. Gone were the icons, gone the mosaic images and the gold latticework that once lined the central nave. No candles, no collects to honour the Mother of God. The soul of the building had been painted over with stark white.

For a moment she was rooted there, wondering what her father would have made of it. Then she took a deep breath. That’s the way it is now. Accept it. Don’t waste time grieving for what can never be brought back. You’re here for Anna, only Anna. Now search this barren place, just like she told you to.

Quickly she sought out the bust of Josef Stalin’s head. It was easy to find, displayed prominently in a niche on the side wall, as Priest Logvinov had said. She stared with dislike at its lifeless eyes and arrogant chin, wanting to climb up there to give it the same treatment the Komsomol thugs had given St Peter.

No risks. Not now. Get on with the search.

First she examined the bricks beneath the niche. Her fingers traced the outline of each one, seeking a loose corner or some disturbed mortar that would indicate a hiding place. But no, the bricks were smooth. She traced them all the way to the floor with no success and then knelt on the boards and set to work, running a hand along each one, tapping it, picking at its edges, testing if it would lift or rock unevenly. Nothing. Nothing at all. Except the cold lead of disappointment in her stomach. Frustrated, she crouched on the floor, elbows on her knees, and stared at the white wall. Where? Where was the hiding place? Maria had whispered to Anna that a secret box was concealed here, but where, damn it, where? Where would someone hide something they didn’t want found?

The oak door rattled. She leapt to her feet. Someone was trying to enter.

‘Comrade Morozova, are you in there?’ It was the Party man, the weasel man, the informer, Comrade Zakarov.

Quickly she scanned the wall beneath the head of Stalin one last time. A box buried at St Peter’s feet. That’s what she’d been told, but it was so little. Abruptly she dropped to her knees.

‘St Peter,’ she whispered, ‘grant me inspiration. Please, I’m begging. Isn’t that what you want, you and your God? Humility and supplication?’

Nothing came. No shaft of sunlight to point the way. Sofia nodded, as though she’d expected no less, and just then the door shook again, louder this time. ‘Comrade Morozova, I know you’re in there.’

What now?

She had to leave. She made her way up the central aisle and inserted the key in the lock. As she did so, a longing for Mikhail came with such force it took her breath from her.

‘Mikhail,’ she whispered, just to feel his name on her tongue.

He could help her. But would he? If she told him all she knew about Anna and his past and about what was hidden in the church, would he turn her away like a thief? He’d said he would help the right person but was she that right person? Was Anna? He was in a position of authority now and worked for the Soviet State system, he had a son whom he loved. Would he risk it all if she asked?

Would you, Mikhail, would you? You’d be insane to do so.

She straightened her shoulders and turned the key. If she asked for his help, she risked failure. And failure meant death. Not just her own.

Davinsky Camp July 1933

The cat crept into the camp out of nowhere. Its arrival occurred at the end of one of the fierce summer storms that were sweeping through the region. The small creature picked its way daintily round the puddles in the yard as if walking on eggshells. It was young and painfully thin, its bedraggled fur a sort of non-colour, neither grey nor brown but somewhere in between. But there was a jauntiness to it that attracted attention in a world where limbs were heavy and movements slow.

The women couldn’t help smiling. A group of them tried to encourage it into a corner but it looked at them with scornful green eyes and slipped effortlessly through their legs. It scampered straight into one of the huts, gazed with interest at the array of bunks and leapt up on to Anna’s. It nudged its bony little head against her arm and plunged its needle claws into her blanket, kneading with a steady rhythm that tore holes in the threadbare material. Anna touched its head, a light tentative brush of her fingertips over the damp fur, and immediately the young cat started to purr.

The loud rackety sound of it did something to Anna. Happiness sprang into her chest like something solid. She could feel it warm and contented in there, soothing the inflamed passages in her lungs. Like the cat, it seemed to have come from nowhere. She scratched a finger under the animal’s furry chin until it stretched out its neck with pleasure and watched her through half-closed eyes, totally content.

‘I’m sorry I have no food to give you, little one.’

Other prisoners were gathering round the bunk board.

‘It’s so pretty,’ one crooned.

‘It needs meat.’

‘Don’t we all!’

‘It’ll be riddled with fucking fleas,’ Tasha warned.

Anna laughed. ‘Fleas, bed bugs, mosquitoes, marsh flies – what’s the difference?’

The young animal suddenly hiccupped and everyone chuckled. Tasha put out a hand to stroke its soft fur. But at that moment one of the guard dogs outside barked and the cat hissed, flattening its ears, its sharp claws raking Tasha’s skin.