Kate Furnivall - Under a Blood Red Sky

This was the new reality and he’d better get used to it. Stuck in this wretched hole. He would still be here tomorrow, and the next tomorrow and the tomorrow after that. He spat on the floor, spitting out his fear, and he searched his mind for something clean and cool and strong to hold on to. He found a pair of eyes. Eyes that looked at him straight, blue as a summer sky and bright with laughter. He drew them to him and filled every part of his mind with them, even the dark rotten places where he didn’t like to look.

‘Sofia,’ he whispered. ‘Sofia.’

Sofia queued. Hour after hour, till her feet went numb and her heart ached and her hand itched to bang on the hatch to demand attention. The long L-shaped office was painted green and smelled of disinfectant. Someone had placed a vase of vivid red flowers on the window sill. Most of the people in the queue were women: wives, mothers, sisters, daughters, all in search of their loved ones. Some with desperate eyes and panicked faces, others with the patience of the dead, shuffling forward with no hope.

So why come? Sofia wondered.

But in her heart she knew. You hold on with every sinew left in you because if you don’t, what is there? Nothing. You lie down and die. And if you die, they win. No. Nyet. She said it aloud in the room. No. Nyet . Others stole a surprised glance at her but she ignored them and turned to Mikhail’s son at her side, a slight silent figure who had barely spoken a word all day.

‘Pyotr.’

He lifted his head.

‘Pyotr, are you hungry? Would you like some bread?’

She spoke quietly to avoid the envious ears around her, holding out a small slice of black bread wrapped in greasepaper that Zenia had pushed into her hand before she’d left the house early this morning. Pyotr shook his head. His fists were sunk deep in his pockets and his shoulders were hunched over, so that he looked like a wounded animal. She touched his arm but he flinched away.

‘Not long now,’ she said.

‘That’s what you said two hours ago.’

‘Well, this time it must be true.’

He looked at the twenty or more people ahead of them and at those behind them in a queue that snaked out the door, then shrugged his young shoulders. She wanted to rub his bony back, to brush his hair off his face, to raise his head and coax some energy back into him. From the moment the troops drove off with Mikhail in the black prison van, the boy had lost his hold on who he was. He had turned grey, empty, colourless. Sofia had seen too many like that in the camps, seen the grey slowly darken and turn black and the black turn to death. Or worse than death, to nothingness.

She seized his shoulder and shook him till she saw a flash of annoyance in response.

‘Better,’ she snapped. ‘Your father is in prison. He’s not dead and he’s not in a labour camp. Not yet. So don’t you dare give up on him, do you hear me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Say it.’

‘Yes, I hear you.’

‘Better. Very soon now we’ll find out exactly what he’s accused of.’ She glanced over at the hatch with impatience. ‘If ever that snail-faced bastard decides to speed things up.’

An old woman was standing in front of the uniformed official, tears running down her cheeks, trying to thrust a brown paper package through the hatch. ‘Give him this,’ she was sobbing, ‘give my boy-’

‘No parcels,’ the bored official rapped out and slammed down the shutter.

Pyotr looked frightened. Sofia touched his arm and this time he didn’t pull away.

‘Your father is a valuable worker for the State, Pyotr. They won’t waste his knowledge and expertise by-’

‘He’s not my father,’ Pyotr shouted at her, his cheeks suddenly bright red with shame. ‘He’s a thief. He deserves to be locked up.’

‘Name?’

‘I’m enquiring about Mikhail Antonovich Pashin. He was taken from Tivil last night but-’

‘Who are you?’

‘I’m here with his son, Pyotr Pashin.’

‘Papers?’

‘These are Pyotr’s.’

‘And yours?’

‘I’m just a friend. I’m helping Pyotr to find out what-’

‘Your name?’

‘Sofia Morozova.’

‘Papers?’

Sofia hesitated. ‘Here. It’s my resident’s permit at the Red Arrow kolkhoz in Tivil, though I don’t see why I-’

‘Wait.’

The shutter slammed shut.

‘Sofia.’

‘No need to whisper, Pyotr. It’s all right, we’re outdoors now. No one can overhear.’

‘I know what happens when a person is arrested.’

‘Do you?’

‘Yes. It happened to Yuri’s uncle. The person is interrogated, sometimes for months, and if he’s innocent he’s freed, so… Why are you laughing?’

‘No reason. Go on.’

‘So do you think Papa will be freed?’

‘The bastards wouldn’t tell us anything today, where he is or what he’s charged with. But I insisted he’s innocent.’

‘So he’ll be freed?’

Sofia’s heart went out to the boy. She swung him to face her, her hands pinning the slender bones of his shoulders.

‘He’ll be set free,’ she told him fiercely. ‘Your father is a good man. Don’t ever believe he’s not, and don’t ever disown him again in my hearing.’

His cheeks coloured scarlet but his brown eyes didn’t drop away. ‘He’s not my father.’

‘Pyotr, don’t you dare say such a thing.’

Still the brown eyes stared miserably into hers, but his voice lowered to a whisper. ‘He’s not. Ask Rafik. My father was the miller in Tivil. Six years ago my mother ran off with a soldier to Moscow and my father burned down the mill with himself inside it.’

‘Oh, Pyotr.’

‘I had no one, no family. My father was labelled a kulak even though he was dead, so no villager would help me. The authorities were going to send me to an institution.’ He stopped and dragged a hand across his eyes. ‘But Mikhail Pashin adopted me. He was new to the village and he didn’t even know me, but he took me in.’

Sofia drew Pyotr to her and gently stroked his hair.

‘He’ll be set free,’ she whispered. ‘I promise.’

‘Name?’

‘I am Mikhail Antonovich Pashin.’

‘Occupation?’

‘ Inzhenir . Engineer First Class. And direktor fabriki . Factory manager.’

‘Which factory?’

‘The Levitsky factory in Dagorsk. We make clothes and military uniforms. It is a loyal factory with dedicated workers. This month we exceeded our quota of-’

‘Silence.’

The peremptory order made the small interrogation room shrink further. There were no windows, just a bright naked light bulb dangling from the ceiling. A metal table stood in the centre, grey and scarred, two chairs behind it, another one alone and bolted to the floor in front of it. Mikhail stood very erect, focused on what he intended to say, and forced himself to swallow his anger. He felt it burn his throat as it sank to his stomach.

‘Sit.’

He sat.

‘Place of birth?’

‘Leningrad.’

‘Father’s name?’

‘Anton Ivanovich Pashin.’

‘Father’s occupation?’

‘Wheelwright. He was a man loyal to the Revolution and he died for it when-’

‘Why did you leave the Tupolev aircraft factory?’

‘I’m damned sure you know why I had to leave. It’ll be written down in that fat file in front of you. So why bother to ask me?’

For the first time the man behind the desk showed a flicker of interest. He was tall and elegant, in a uniform that was well cut and bore a row of medals.

‘Answer my question.’ His eyes were slightly slanting and he had small neat features that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a woman.

‘I left because I was forced to.’